


For the want of a nail

by Richefic



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Period Typical Attitudes, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 74,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Richefic/pseuds/Richefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine minor injury becomes something much more. How will Captain Athos deal with a life altering disability and continue to lead the Regiment as war approaches? With the help and support of his brothers, that's how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am very nervous about posting this. I have been writing it for well over a year. Its grown to more than 51000 words. I nearly gave up on it when I thought I would not get it finished before season 3. But then the air date got later and later, so here we are.
> 
> It assumes that Aramis was swiftly retrieved from the Monastery and that mobilizing an army for war takes months rather than weeks. It is AU in the sense that I imagine we would never see Athos so badly wounded on the show. But what is fan fiction for if not to put those we love through the wringer so they can demonstrate their devotion to each other?

**Musketeer Garrison. Paris.**

The shaft of sunlight coming through the window set the dust motes dancing in the air. This glimpse of the outside world only served to make the piles of documents in front of Treville seem even more oppressive. The newly appointed Minister of War tried, in vain, to close his ears to the sharp clash of steel and the exuberant voices of the regiment, training in the courtyard below. Despite his initial protestations Athos was proving to be every bit as competent and inspiring as a leader as Treville had expected. The thought of _that_ brought a smile to his face even as he added his signature to yet another tedious document, determined to do his former Lieutenant the courtesy of clearing his desk before he left to take up his new responsibilities at the Palace.

“Is that _really_ your best effort?” Athos’ voice, rich with amusement, rose clearly above the general melee below. “If you were that eager to pay for dinner you could simply have said.”

“And if you were so confident of winning, _mon frère_ , you would have agreed to include the cost of the wine.” Aramis’ retort held a distinctly teasing lilt.

Alone in his _former_ office, Treville did not even try to hide his smile, easily imaging the way Aramis was grinning, perhaps even waggling his eyebrows, as he danced out of Athos’ reach.

“Hardly," Athos scoffed at the very idea of Aramis paying for the wine. "You have no idea what .. constitutes .. a decent vintage.”

Treville paused, his pen hovering in the air, his brow furrowed as he heard the catch in Athos’ breathing, suggesting the finest swordsman in the regiment was being sorely tested. 

As he listened, the bout began again, blades clashing with an impressive speed and efficiency, even for two of his best men. Treville tilted his head to one side.

Perhaps that should be _three_ of his best men.

Curious now Treville rose and made his way out onto the balcony. In the courtyard d’Artagnan was sitting on the table, his knife still held loosely in his hand, but the apple he had been peeling, now lying browning and quite forgotten in his lap.

Treville didn’t blame him.

Athos, stripped to his shirtsleeves, was standing with his sword held out in front of him and a smirk hovering on his lips, as he formed the apex of a triangle, facing his brothers. In their turns Porthos and Aramis were each grinning manically as they advanced towards him. Treville couldn’t help but shake his head fondly at their good natured sport.

“Another inch to the right and you would have been bleeding like a stuck pig.” Porthos crowed.

“And yet ..” Athos managed. “As you see .. I am not.”

“Athos, behind you.” d’Artagnan’s bright voice called a warning as Aramis skirted around to the left.

 “Oi you, stop helpin’ him.” Porthos protested.

 “It’s not like we plan on doing him any _permanent_ injury.” Aramis purred.

 “Are you two going to talk .. or fight?” Athos challenged.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a swift look and then, with one accord they charged forward. Their seamless teamwork, together with their knowledge of Athos’ style, and the fact that the former Comte had spent five years sharing his skills in a bid to keep his brothers alive, ensures that their “fearless leader” as Aramis will insist on calling him, is pushed to his very limits. Despite this, Athos is grinning broadly, thoroughly enjoying himself, and giving no quarter in his turn.

Porthos was the first to yield, his superior strength and stamina ultimately no match for Athos’ sheer speed and skill with a blade. Finding himself with a sword laid across the back of his neck, he simply grinned his acceptance of his defeat and stepped clear.

Aramis’ long reach and almost balletic poise, twisting and turning in ways that should have been impossible draws out their fight. But the result is eventually the same as he was sent to his knees.  Smiling broadly he accepted Athos’ hand to help him up, using that grip to pull his brother into a heartfelt embrace.

“Your turn,” Aramis grinned over Athos’ shoulder directing his words at d’Artagnan.  “Now that we’ve properly tired him out for you, maybe you can land a hit.”

“Who knows,” Porthos added cheerily from his seat at the table where he is wiping off his face with a cloth. “You might even knock him on his arse.”

Treville doesn’t miss the brief flash of eagerness that chases across d’Artagnan’s features at the thought. But he wasn’t surprised when the Gascon hung back. In the middle of the courtyard Athos was now bent double, his hands resting on his thighs, as he sucked in great gulps of air in an effort to steady his breathing.

Besting the combined efforts of Porthos _and_ Aramis is no easy feat for any man.

“That hardly seems fair.” d’Artagnan protested.

“The enemy won’t wait until he is well-rested,” Aramis counselled seriously as he walked over to put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and look him directly in the eye. “Would you have him die because he has forgotten what it is like to be truly tested?”

“Aramis .. is .. right,” Athos concurred, still breathing heavily.

Sucking in a final gulp of air, he carefully straightened up, wiped his sword off on the hem of his shirt and raised a hand to beckon the Gascon forward. “Complacency is even more dangerous than over confidence. Be assured I expect nothing less than your best.”

“Well then,” d’Artagnan hopped up and picked up his sword, all the love he has for Athos shining in his eyes. “I would hate to disappoint you, Captain.”

Treville found himself leaning forward, more than willing to put other business aside for the moment to discover how this will turn out. Around the courtyard the rest of the men have also paused in their training to watch. Treville can hardly blame them. D’Artagnan is a fine swordsman whose natural talent has been carefully honed by Athos’ patient teaching. And whilst Treville is certain two years isn’t sufficient time for Athos to teach the lad everything _he_ knows, with his mentor already flagging the talented young Gascon might just beat him.

Initially their fight proceeds like so many before between these two. D’Artagnan tries to press the advantage of youth and zeal and Athos counters with the steel of knowledge and experience. True to his word d’Artagnan wasn’t holding back but Athos was using every trick Porthos had ever shown him, ducking in and around the archways, at one point almost causing d’Artagnan to slice through the Garrison’s table as he ducked underneath at the last possible second. There were also signs of Aramis’ influence, swift turns and parries which forced d’Artagnan off balance, so that sparks actually flew from their blades.

And then d’Artagnan found a sliver of a gap in Athos’ defence.

His blade licked forward, swift as a serpent’s tongue, to slice the fabric of Athos’ shirt sleeve.

But in his eagerness to do so the Gascon over extended just a fraction, leaving himself open. There was a turn and a flash of steel that was so very _Athos_ and then d’Artagnan was standing stock still, his chin slightly raised to accommodate the sword pressed against his throat.

“Bravo.”  D’Artagnan said quietly, his smile so proud and _fond_ that Treville had to swallow hard.

“That,” Athos’ tone is still perfectly arch despite the way his chest is heaving with the effort to suck sufficient air into his lungs. “Was my _favourite_ shirt.”

There’s a round of laughter followed by warm applause from the watching Musketeers. Athos immediately swept his blade away and, staggering slightly from their exertions, the two men wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders and make their way, like some four-legged creature, towards the table.

Aramis and Porthos welcome them both with fond touches, tousling d’Artagnan’s hair for the hit and patting Athos on the back for the win, pressing cups of wine into their hands.

“You’re bleeding.” Porthos realized with a frown.

“What?” d’Artagnan looked up in surprise. “No, I’m fine.”

“Not you,” Porthos shook his head, as he nodded at Athos. “Him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Even a scratch can be dangerous if left to fester,” Athos spoke up. “Aramis doesn’t like to leave these things to chance. A few stitches where the blade has bitten more deeply will simply help the wound heal faster and cleaner.”
> 
> “Oh, well, good,” d’Artagnan almost sagged in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to say I'm hoping to get the whole of this published before Season 3 comes up. It all started with *that* kiss between Athos and Aramis and then Athos hugging Aramis goodbye - and I began to wonder what would an Athos who could truly be convinced that he was worthy of his brothers' love be like ..

A moment of silence hung heavy in the air. D’Artagnan paled under his olive complexion as he realised that a bright red stain was indeed spreading across Athos left shirt sleeve.

“Hmm?”

Athos finally looked up from his wine. Following Porthos’ gaze he lifted up his arm to survey the damage.

“Oh, damn it all.” He huffed, exasperated.

“You never even felt it, did you?” Porthos said knowingly.

They have all been there. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in battle for men to continue to fight on with wounds that should have brought them to their knees, at least, until the danger was past. Or all their strength was spent. Whichever came first.

But now that the wound had been remarked upon, Athos’ expression of surprise settled into something a little tighter and more controlled as the pain made itself known.

“Let me see.”

Aramis used one hand to push Athos down onto the bench and reached out the other to hook a nearby stool under him. Grasping the torn edges of the shirt he tugged sharply, to expose the wound.

Treville felt his breath catch in his throat at the deep cut. Even from this distance he could see it was no mere graze.

For his part d’Artagnan turned a sickly shade of green as he caught sight of the raw, bleeding, gash. At once he put down his wine and stepped forward, his expression a study in dismay. They have all suffered their share of bruises during practice, although Treville has always taken a dim view on his men actually injuring one another. The Gascon would not be the fine young man he is if he did not worry about causing his friends pain.

“Is it very bad?”

Instead of answering Aramis picked up a bottle of wine from the table and pulled out the cork with his teeth, using it to rinse off the freely bleeding wound so he could see it more clearly. Then he passed the remainder of the bottle to Athos, who nodded his thanks, before refilling his glass and drinking deeply.

Almost at once the blood surged up again.

“I’ll go and fetch your sewing kit.”

Porthos wasn’t quite able to keep the sharp note of worry out of his voice and his step was brisk as he headed off towards Aramis’ room. Treville shared his concern. Any soldier knew the damage that could be caused when a blade bites too deeply into muscles and sinews.

“Needlework?” d’Artagnan sounded slightly strangled at the prospect. “It’s that serious?”

“Even a scratch can be dangerous if left to fester,” Athos spoke up. “Aramis doesn’t like to leave these things to chance. A few stitches where the blade has bitten more deeply will simply help the wound heal faster and cleaner.”

“Oh, well, good,” d’Artagnan almost sagged in relief. Then he visibly gathered himself and stepped closer. “Can I do anything?”

“You could fetch another bottle of wine,” Aramis suggested, as he pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly folded it into a strip, which he tied tightly around Athos’ arm just above the wound. “Or two.” 

“Of course,” d’Artagnan nodded. Eager to be useful, he turned on his heel and headed towards the Garrison cellar with such a determined air that Treville rather feared for his own small stock of select vintages.

“Can you move your hand?” Aramis asked, as soon as they were alone.

Athos frowned intently as he focused on the appendage.

“It would seem not.” He said tonelessly.

Oh, dear God. Treville found he was gripping the balcony rail so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. 

Being a Musketeer meant everything to Athos. He had fought so hard to overcome his demons, to damp down his own self-loathing to a level where he can accept that he has brothers who love him and a role where he can serve with honour. Not to mention, in no small part due to the arrival of young d’Artagnan, who has flourished under his mentor ship, that he now has a reason to believe he is not entirely undeserving of some measure of, if not outright happiness, at least fulfilment.

If God is cruel enough to rip that all away from him now, by taking away the use of his left arm, he will no doubt believe himself to be utterly dammed.

“Can you feel anything at all?” Aramis pressed.

“The limb feels ..” Athos visibly cannot bring himself to say “dead”. He settled on “Numb. It feels numb, rather as if I had slept on it badly.”

“Alright,” Somehow Aramis kept his tone level, even mustering up a reassuring smile. “That doesn’t necessarily signify anything. No limb responds naturally when it’s deprived of blood. Let’s not go assuming the worst just yet, eh?”

Athos dipped his head minutely in acknowledgement. Trevile knows he trusts Aramis with every fibre of his being. But he also knows Athos has long since lost faith that God might view him as a creature deserving of the least part of mercy. It would be just like him to see this accident as some kind of divine retribution.

As far as Treville is concerned Athos has never been guilty of anything. Except perhaps loving too fiercely and too deeply for his own good.

“I can hear you thinking, you know,” Aarmis observed, his eyes soft with hard won understanding. Whilst these two might seem like polar opposites Treville knows just how much common ground they share. “And I do believe I said not to go assuming the worst?”

That provoked a huff of amusement as Athos’ lips quirked in the barest smile. Not for the first time Treville thanks God that this noble, honourable, damned near impossible man has friends, brothers, who understand his needs.

“Do not say anything to the boy.”

“Athos,” Aramis screwed up his usually open features in consternation. Despite his efforts to be positive they both know this could go very badly. “He won’t thank you for keeping this from him.”

“You said yourself not to assume the worst,” Athos reminded, ever the arch tactician as he used Aramis’ own words against him. “I am not asking you to lie. Merely not to say anything until we have the truth of the matter. He was a little over zealous, but it was an accident, nothing more. I won't see him blame himself.”

Aramis visibly swallowed hard, and had to look away, blinking rapidly. Treville understood all too well. He isn’t sure he could be quite so magnanimous were it his arm hanging in the balance. 

“You are a far better brother than any us deserve to forgive us our trespasses so readily."

Treviile snorted a little at that. He sometimes thinks Athos is rather too ready to overlook his brothers’ faults, rash, headstrong and occasionally wayward as they are. He is firmly of the opinion that if Athos had not been quite so willing to indulge Thomas’ whims then much heartache could have been avoided.

"I rather think," Athos spoke quietly, his gaze steady as he looked at Aramis, a man whose escapades Treville knows has caused Athos more heartache than most, but also a brother who has always stood by Athos, no matter how difficult the man has made that at times. "You have no room to talk in the matter. You have forgiven me my faults many times over. I am reliably informed it has something to do with love.”

Oh.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Aramis managed a rueful smile, as he placed a gentle hand on Athos’ bare neck and squeezed firmly, a surprisingly tender gesture in such a public forum. But then Athos raised his head and his eyes are very large and vulnerable in his too pale face. Aramis tone becomes soft and reassuring. “Whatever happens, mon frère, you are not alone.”

“Damned straight,” Porthos agreed, as he returned, the hand not holding Aramis’ sewing kit, coming to rest between Athos’ shoulder blades. A warm, steadying, pressure. “What exactly are we fretting about?”

“Hopefully nothing,” Aramis flashed him a bright grin, but Porthos knew him well enough to see the worry underneath. 

Aramis held out his hand for his kit. Lips pressed tightly together he carefully threaded a needle, dunking it in d’Artagnan’s abandoned wine, before he set to work, skilfully drawing the mess of the raw wound together with twelve careful stitches. For his part Athos appeared to completely ignore the process in favour of re-filing his cup with the last of the wine. Despite the fact that Treville knows from experience that even Aramis’ careful ministrations hurt like the devil.

“So, all fixed up then?” Porthos enquired hopefully.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Aramis reached towards the handkerchief serving as a make shift tourniquet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aramis,” d’Artagnan hissed, his tone low and fierce. “I am not going to celebrate wounding my best friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the lovely feedback. This chapter concludes the first 'act' as it were.

With careful fingers Aramis untied the tourniquet and then picked up the injured limb and begin rubbing it briskly. Athos’ face abruptly twisted into an expression of sheer agony. Aramis merely held the arm fast and redoubled his efforts.

 

Athos ground out a string of curses between gritted teeth, thumping his un-injured fist sharply down on the table for emphasis as the limb clearly pained him so greatly he might wish it actually had been severed.

 

“ _Aramis_ ..” He panted. "What ..?"

 

“Feels like your arm has been plunged into the fiery pits of hell, doesn’t it?” Aramis grinned broadly as he finally ceased his labours. He lifted up the hand he was still holding and bestowed a contrite kiss on Athos’ white, clenched knuckles. “My sincerest apologies, for causing you such agony, although I confess, I cannot find it in my heart to regret that you have apparently still have full use of your arm.”

 

“I do?”

 

Athos looked pale and slightly sickly with the ordeal of it all. But he summoned his courage and tentatively tried to move his fingers, watching with ever dawning hope in his eyes as the digits flicked weakly.

 

“Oh, _Aramis._ ”

 

Some might call it blasphemy that it is his brother’s name that Athos invokes in thanks for his deliverance. But given how ill served Athos has been by God in contrast to his brother’s steadfast devotion Treville finds it oddly fitting.

 

“Fit to fight another day,” Aramis assured him, his soft smile echoing his own relief as he pressed his forehead against Athos’ in a kind of blessing, before drawing back and adding in a more normal tone of voice. “But for now, rest. Yes?”

 

Athos nodded gravely, understanding what Aramis has not said. He has lost a good deal of blood and his body, already feeling the effects of battling three challenging opponents, will be weak from it for a while yet.

 

“Oh, now,” Porthos beamed, his own relief that all is apparently well, patently evident, as he passed Aramis a clean bandage to cover the freshly stitched wound. “That’s going to leave a right pretty scar that is.”

 

“I don’t know,” Aramis demurred, a distinctly teasing edge leaking into his tone, as he gently wrapped the cloth around wound and neatly tied it off. “I’m not sure how well it will stand out against our dear Athos’ delicate completion. Although, perhaps when his milk white flesh catches the sun ..”

 

Treville bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing out loud when Aramis suddenly found himself flailing wildly as he was tipped backwards, curtesy of Athos’ boot hooked under leg of his stool, to land with a _huff_ on his rear in the dirt just as d’Artagnan trotted up four bottles of suspiciously dusty looking wine hanging loosely from his fingers.

 

“You didn’t learn from the last time?” Porthos chortled as Aramis scrambled to his feet. Turing to explain to a bemused d’Artagnan he spoke in a shameless stage whisper. “Our Athos here is a bit sensitive about his lily white skin.”

 

“Just for that I expect dinner at the Tavern d’Or.” Athos declared loftily. “With wine.”

 

“Eh now, we never agreed to pay for the wine.” Porthos reminded him.

 

“No, no, it's only right,” Aramis disagreed. “It’s our young Gascon’s first hit on our fearless leader, after all. Such a milestone calls for a proper celebration.”

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan hissed, his tone low and fierce. “I am not going to _celebrate_ wounding my best friend.”

 

“Nonsense,” Aramis roundly dismissed that. Rising to his feet he placed a companionable arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder as he drew him to one side, his voice low and serious. “Athos needs to make up the blood loss. A bottle of decent red, instead of that rot gut he usually buys, and a dinner of fine rib of beef will do him a world of good.”

 

D’Artagnan bit his lip, before he nodded in agreement. Treville knows his inseparables haven’t had nearly enough chances recently just to relax and enjoy each other’s company. And if this small celebration means that Athos will sit down with them and actually eat a decent meal, rather than merely filling his stomach with wine, then so much the better.

 

“Aramis is right,” Porthos declared roundly, obviously reckoning they could all do with a good night out. "These two have been on at me to spend some of that legacy General de Foix left me,” He clapped d’Artagnan on the back. “A right good feed in both your honours sounds like the very best of reasons to me."

 

Treville felt a start of surprise. He knew Porthos was reluctant to accept de Foix’s legacy. G _uilt money_ he’d called it. He should have realized that the man’s closest friends would have voiced their own opinions on the matter.

 

“You have already suffered so many hardships due to that man’s choices, it’s only right that he should bring a little joy to your life,” Athos approved quietly.

 

Porthos gave a small nod of gratitude, his eyes shining suspiciously brightly at his brother’s compassion.

 

“Although, I still say you should spend a little on yourself, perhaps those new boots you liked ..?” Aramis added hopefully.

 

“Mis,” Porthos’ brow furrowed slightly. “Don’t push it.”

 

"It was merely a suggestion, _mon frère,_ " Aramis swiftly moved to soothe ruffled feathers.

 

Belatedly d’Artagnan remembered the wine. Opening one of the bottles at random he hastened forward and refilled Athos’ glass. Causing his mentor to look up and frown at his downcast expression.

 

A wordless glance passed between the other three. Aramis put down his wine glass and fixed Athos with a stern look.

 

“Keep that wound clean and dry,” He reminded. “ _Don’t_ tear my stitches and you’ll be fine and fit in a couple of days.”

 

“And don’t go too easy on the lad,” Porthos murmured. “Mistake like that in battle’d cost a lot more than a new shirt.”

 

Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement of their instructions.

 

And then Aramis was casting his arm around Porthos as the two of them took their leave.

 

"Come along, my dear Porthos,” He said, just a little too expansively to Treville’s mind to be entirely subtle. “If we are to grace such a fine establishment as the Tavern d’Or then we should at least remove some of this grime and don a clean shirt."

 

As soon as they were alone d'Artaganan all but fell into the seat beside Athos, misery evident in every line of his body.

 

“Does it hurt a great deal?”

 

It was testament to Athos’ fondness for the younger man that he refrains from giving him the deeply unimpressed look of someone with twelve stitches in his arm. An arm which only moments ago he feared he might lose the use of.

 

“It smarts a little,” He offered with typical understatement turning his glass around in his hand. “The wine will take the edge off.”

 

“The fault was entirely mine," d’Artagnan met Athos' gaze bravely as he confessed his fault. “I overextended and didn’t have full control of the blade when I landed the hit. It was careless of me to cut you so deeply. A more skilled opponent would have landed the hit without breaking the skin.”

 

Treville straightened up, his estimation of the Gascon rising yet another notch. He wouldn’t have expected the lad to think of that in his moment of victory. Everyone in the Garrison knows that only Aramis and Cornet, _God rest his soul_ had _ever_ managed to get through Athos’ defenses, and that only after years of constant sparring, becoming familiar with his style.

 

“And a lessor opponent would never have breached my defences in the first place,” Athos reminded. “You lack experience _not_ skill. Tomorrow we will practice your lunges until I am satisfied you will not make the same error in future.”

 

D’Artagnan visibly blanched, no doubt already imagining the sore muscles that will result from repeating the same action again and again under Athos’ critical eye until it finally passed muster. But he merely nodded, signalling his acceptance of the impending lesson.

 

“As you wish.”

 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos gave a fond sigh as he reached over to wrap his long pale fingers around the thin tanned wrist, waiting until he was quite sure he had the young man’s full attention before he continued. “Do not confuse instruction with punishment. Believe me when I say that the pain of this wound is as nothing to the agony I would feel if you repeated that same error on the battlefield and thus allowed an enemy to breech your defences so that I was forced to bury another little brother.”

 

“Oh,” d’Artagnan said, a little helplessly, his eyes growing damp.

 

Treville smiled with quiet pride, as Athos patted the lad on the arm, before refilling his glass. He knew those felt heartfelt words would do far more to motivate d’Artagnan to improve than any reprimand could ever have.

 

He wasn’t surprised when Athos, knowing himself to be observed, looked up and met his former Captain’s gaze with a quizzical tilt of his head. Treville inclined his head in approval of Athos handling of his protégé. In return Athos raised his glass in salute before taking a long, satisfied swallow which indicted he knew damned well exactly whose private supplies the young Gascon had just pillaged on his behalf.

 

It was, Treville supposed with a sigh, a small price to pay for retaining the services of the finest swordsman in the regiment.

 

The alternative simply didn’t bear thinking about.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos watched with a feeling of warmth growing in his chest as his friends set out plates and cups, a platter of Serge’s best sliced roast, a round of hard cheese, some fresh yellow butter, a basket of still warm bread and a platter of fruits.
> 
> It was simple fare. But as the glasses were filled and the conversation flowed, not for the first time, Athos felt blessed to have found these men. As he cleared his plate, under Aramis’ approving gaze, he knew he’d never enjoyed the lavish banquets that had been the Comte’s obligation at la Frere half as much as these basic meals with his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so onto Act Two and a quiet interlude before all the drama.

As much as Athos firmly tried to tell himself that his arm did not hurt, there was no question that, by the end of the following day, it was distinctly uncomfortable.

Thanks to Aramis’ skilled care he had been able to run sword drills with the men, paying particular attention to lunges, recognizing that d’Artagnan was hardly the only one in the regiment who would profit from such training, but the repetitive exercises had made his damaged arm muscles ache terribly. Then long hours, sitting in a strategy meeting, where it seemed every General in the King’s army was determined to test the mettle of the new Captain of the Musketeers, had caused things to stiffen up. Now, sat as his desk, dealing with the never ending stream of paperwork, it had become a dull, but very persistent, throbbing.

“Please tell me that you at least stopped to eat.”

Athos felt a smile spread across his face at the familiar voice.

Looking up gratefully from the pile of reports, requisitions, muster rolls and checklists spread across his desk, he saw Aramis standing in the doorway, with a frown on his face. Sitting back in his chair he beckoned his friend forward. Noting with surprise the lengthening shadows and fading light that indicated that the day had got away from him. 

“Can Bastian deliver what we need?”

With every regiment in Paris wanting to increase their armouries, and every nobleman’s son looking to commission a shiny new musket to take into battle, the competition to engage the best gunsmith in Paris was fierce. Athos had hoped that by sending Aramis to negotiate, his expert knowledge of weaponry, coupled with his natural charm, would give them an edge.

“Not only can he, but he also has agreed to do so,” Aramis grinned, as he pulled a document from his jacket with a flourish and dropped it in front of Athos. “It’ll cost a little more than usual and take a little longer but he vows it’ll be ready before the Regiment leaves for the border.”

“His craftsmanship is worth both the expense and the wait,” Athos observed, He had no intention of sending his men into battle with anything less than the best. He perused the terms of the agreement. Aramis had struck an excellent bargain. Then he paused. “Care to tell me why I am also buying the Captain of the Red Guard a new hat?”

“I might have engaged in a small contest with other interested parties to see whose order would take precedence,” Aramis grinned. “A target was required.”

“Of course it was.” Athos rolled his eyes.

“So?” Aramis was apparently not to be distracted. “Have you eaten?”

“Serge brought me something earlier.” Athos said truthfully.

Casting his eyes across the desk Aramis nudged aside a pile of papers to reveal an untouched bowl, the rich stew, now cold and congealing, with lumps of white fat dotted about its surface.

“Athos.” He chided. 

Before the Captain could muster any kind of defence feet pounded up the stairs outside and Porthos stuck his head around the door.

“Don’t tell me he’s still at it?”

Without waiting for an answer he came into the room and put the flagon of wine he was carrying down on the sideboard. He was closely followed by d’Artagnan who gave a groan of relief as he placed the evidently rather heavy basket he bore down beside it.

“I’ve dismissed the men for the day,” Porthos pulled his bandanna off his head and used it to wipe the sweat off his face. “Young Clemence did well, managed to knock Ferrand right on his arse.”

“I’ll remember to praise and console accordingly,” Athos allowed. He gestured at the sideboard. “What’s this?”

“Well, since you didn’t come down to supper,” d’Artagnan grinned, as he went around lighting candles, adding a warm glow to the room. “We thought we’d bring supper to you.”

Athos watched as his friends set to, working together to clear a spot on his desk and fetching chairs to create an impromptu dining table.

“No,” Aramis stopped him with a look when he began to rise, intent on helping. “You rest. We’ve got this.”

Athos watched with a feeling of warmth growing in his chest as his friends set out plates and cups, a platter of Serge’s best sliced roast, a round of hard cheese, some fresh yellow butter, a basket of still warm bread and a platter of fruits.

It was simple fare. But as the glasses were filled and the conversation flowed, not for the first time, Athos felt blessed to have found these men. As he cleared his plate, under Aramis’ approving gaze, he knew he’d never enjoyed the lavish banquets that had been the Comte’s obligation at la Frere half as much as these basic meals with his brothers.

Things had been better with her at his side, but he had other priorities now and had determined that those memories were best consigned the past. It would not do for the Captain of the King’s Musketeers to be caught moping like a love sick teenager. It would be bad for moral.

“Alright?” d’Artagnan nudged him gently.

Coming back to himself with a start, Athos realised that all his brothers were looking at him in concern.

"Don't even try and tell us your arm ain't hurtin'.'" Porthos warned.

“Aramis checked it earlier. It’s healing as well as can be expected,” Athos assured him. At Porthos disbelieving snort, he gave a wry smile. “I will try to be a better patient and rest it a little more tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe His Majesty wants to go hunting tomorrow,” Porthos shook his head. “Has he forgotten that he’s ordered us to war?”

“The King has decided to use the occasion entertain the English Ambassador, the Earl of Leicester,” Athos reminded him. “Despite our two countries long enmity, he wants to ensure that his Majesty King Charles remembers that his marriage to Henrietta Maria ties his loyalties to the house of Bourbon rather than the Spanish crown.”

“At least he doesn’t require the presence of the entire regiment,” Porthos pulled a list from his pocket. “These are the men I thought I would take for the honour guard.”

Athos quickly scanned the list. On ceremonial occasions Louis had a tendency to insist on men who looked good in the uniform, overlooking the very real danger of assassination. It was important to achieve a workable compromise between aesthetics and skill.

“Is there a reason that d’Artagnan is omitted?” He frowned.

“I, um, ..” Porthos looked torn between not wanting to lie to Athos and getting his younger brother in trouble.

“I asked to be excused the duty.” d’Artagnan confessed.

Athos looked at the Gascon in surprise. They all knew how keenly the young man felt the honour of attending on the King. 

“Care to explain?”

“With your permission, I would like to stay here and practice my lunges.” 

“You did well today.” Athos reminded him quietly.

“I know,” d’Artagnan said without false modesty. He had pushed himself harder and further than any other man, determined to make Athos proud, until he was ordered to stop. He pressed his lips together tightly, it was his duty and his privilege to serve the King, but his first loyalty would always be to this man whom he loved above all others. “Even so, I wish to never make that mistake again.”

Athos regarded him steadily.

“As you wish,” He said quietly, displaying that depth of compassion that his friends so loved in him. He looked at Porthos. “Take Pierre, his maternal grandmother was English, I believe he has some knowledge of the language which may prove helpful.” 

“I’m surprised the King didn’t insist on your presence,” Aramis tipped his head on one side. “Your English is rather good, after all.”

“You speak English?” d’Artagnan straightened up and looked at him expectantly. “Say something?”

“Would you understand me if I did?” Athos quirked a brow.

“No, but that’s not the point,” d’Artagnan waited hopefully. When he realized his mentor wasn’t going to perform for his amusement he asked the question uppermost in his mind. Athos was by far the most skilled of them all at diplomacy and now it seemed he spoke English as well. “Why didn’t the King ask for you?” 

“I believe Minister Treville convinced his Majesty that I was needed here.” Athos looked slightly awkward.

“Oh, aye. He wouldn’t have done that without good reason. There’s a story there,” Porthos rubbed his hands together with glee. “Come on then, let’s have it.”

Athos looked down, a most endearing blush staining his pale cheeks, and only serving to fuel his brother’s curiosity. They all knew Treville took a somewhat paternal interest in Athos. But even so, he would not have intervened in such a matter of state without good reason.

“I have some prior acquaintance with a member of the Earl of Leicester’s entourage,” Athos admitted. “He would not welcome my presence.”

“Go on.” Porthos wasn’t letting him off the hook.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos held his peace. He hated missions when it was not the four of them all together. But he supposed with war coming and Athos being Captain now, they would just have to make the best of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the danger comes ..

Athos regarded his audience with a wry smile. Porthos looked eager for a tale of political intrigue. D’Artagnan could hardly contain his excitement that his mentor was prepared to share another small piece of his past. Aramis gave him an encouraging smile. He would no doubt say that confession was good for the soul.

At least this story had a happy ending, of sorts.

“The noble in question was freshly arrived from England in the entourage of his father who had come to discuss some diplomatic negotiations. The young man in question had acquired a rather unfortunate view of the morals of the French court,” Athos allowed. “He believed that his status gave him licence to take liberties with the chambermaids.”

“You challenged him to a duel, didn’t you?” D’Artagnan blurted.

It would be just like Athos to see the honour of a chambermaid as equal to that of the grandest duchess.

“The chambermaid on whom he proposed to visit his attentions was not quite thirteen years old,” Athos saw his own disgust at this mirrored in his brothers faces. “I might well have run him through there and then had my father not intervened. He was furious that I had almost caused a diplomatic incident by meddling in something not my concern. As it was the nobleman has a rather disfiguring scar on his cheek which I understand limited his opportunities to make a good match. I believe he is rather bitter about that.”

“Probably best that you don’t cross paths with him then,” Porthos decided. “Else we might find ourselves at war with the English as well as the Spanish when you knocked him on his arse again.”

“Perhaps,” Athos took a deep swallow of his wine. “I tried to tell Treville that it was unlikely, after all this time, that he would recognise Athos of the Kings Musketeers as the heir to la Frere. But he did not want to take that risk. Apparently the nobleman has just come into his inheritance and is rather enjoying throwing his weight around.”

“Just how old were you both?” Aramis asked astutely.

“The young noble had just turned twenty-one. I was fourteen,” Athos looked somewhat abashed. “He really wasn’t very good with a sword.”

“You were _fourteen_.” Porthos swore long and colourfully.

“Was your father very angry?” d’Artagnan enquired kindly. “Surely he can’t have expected you to let that poor girl suffer?”

“It was made very clear to me that whatever my feelings, or indeed my father’s feelings on the matter, the honour of a chambermaid weighed as little against the future of France,” Athos grimaced. “It was a rather painful introduction to how distasteful court politics could be.”

“He beat you?” Aramis said sympathetically.

“What?” Athos looked up. “No, I think I would actually have preferred that. I was immediately sent home in disgrace. I was not even allowed to take my leave of him. It was six months before my father also returned to Pinon and I could finally beg his forgiveness.”

“That seems .. harsh.” D’Artagnan frowned. He could not imagine his own father being so cold.

“He was frequently more absent than he was present, either as a soldier or as a military advisor to the Crown,” Athos shrugged as if this was nothing unusual. D’Artagnan supposed to him it was not. Although, it made him appreciate his own father’s steady presence all the more. “I was mostly brought up in the care of the servants. I suppose that’s why I was always more comfortable in their presence.”

“That’s not the only reason, plenty of nobles we've met went the other way,” Porthos scowled. “Although, you always did care more for others welfare than your own.”

“You say that as if it’s a fault.” Athos said stiffly.

Those who did not know him might take that tone as a reprimand. But his friends had long since come to understand that when he retreated behind his aristocratic airs and graces it was merely a defence mechanism when his feelings had been bruised.

“Now don’t take on so,” Porthos scolded mildly. “You know me better than that. It’s just hard for those who love you to see you always being so hard on yourself. No-one could live up to the standards you set for yourself. Doesn’t mean you’re not doing some good in this world.”

“You have always been a fine man, Athos,” Aramis affirmed quietly. “I wish more people had told you that when you were growing up.”

“If it’s any comfort,” d’Artagnan added. “My father would have been bursting with pride if I had acted with such honour.”

“You father raised a fine son,” Athos smiled gently at him. “I am sure he was a good man.”

“Your father raised a fine son too, for all his was a right bastard to you sometimes,” Porthos said with a bluntness that perhaps only he could get away with. Despite their vastly different backgrounds he and Athos had both been left very much to their own devices as children. “It's a credit to you that you make good choices despite being surrounded by such self-important sycophantic toadies. You should think on that a bit more than you do I reckon.”

“I shall try to remember that.” Athos inclined his head.

“And we will gladly pass on your regards to the nobleman in question,” Aramis grinned. “I am sure he will be delighted to know how far you have risen in the King’s favour, Captain.”

Porthos held his peace. He hated missions when it was not the four of them all together. But he supposed with war coming and Athos being Captain now, they would just have to make the best of things.

**Fontainbleu Forest. Just Outside Paris.**

Not for the first time Aramis reflected that hunting with the King would not be as taxing if the man could actually shoot. Instead they had spent long, tedious, hours, bagging almost nothing, whilst the King had blamed the weather, his weapons, and even the gloves he was wearing for his lack of success.

Suddenly a streak of something, possibly a rabbit, passed right under the hooves of the King’s horse. The beast immediately shied to the right, adding in an enormous buck for good measure. Louis flew through the air and landed in an adjacent pool of water with an undignified splash.

“Help, help, I’m drowning,” He cried as he flailed widely.

Aramis had just a moment to consider that in all the care that had been taken with the King’s classic education no-one had thought to teach him to swim. Spurring his horse forward he bypassed all the courtiers, who were simply standing frozen and open mouthed at the spectacle of their Monarch, damp and spluttering. Riding his horse right into the water he put out his hand and pulled Louis up in front of him.

“There, there, your Majesty,” He soothed. “I have you.”

“We want that odious beast put down,” Louis declared as soon as his feet touched dry land, torn between outrage and embarrassment. “I might have drowned were it not for the noble Musketeer Aramis. We shall conduct him into the order of St Michael in recognition of the fact that he plucked us from the turbulent waters.”

“Don’t know about turbulent waters, seemed more like a stagnant pond to me,” Porthos grinned as they made camp that night.

“The worse of it is the water barely touched my horse’s belly,” Aramis responded from where he was tending to their dinner. “If his Majesty had thought to put his feet down he could have stood up.”

“Really?" Porthos raised a brow. "Instead now we’re stuck here because his right royal physician is scared stiff his Majesty will catch a chill if he is allowed to travel,” Porthos huffed. “Athos is going to throw a fit when he finds out we won’t be back in Paris for at least a week.”

“Thankfully it’s Treville’s responsibility to send word,” Aramis poked unhappily at the bowl of rabbit stew. “Ours is just to hear and obey.”

“Alright, out with it,” Porthos’ tone brooked no argument. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m sure it will be fine.”

Even to his own ears Aramis’ words sounded hollow and unconvincing, so he wasn’t surprised when Porthos, who was no man’s fool, snorted his disbelief.

“You’re worried about his arm.”

“You know how Athos is about taking care of himself,” Aramis admitted unhappily. “There’s always something else that takes precedence.”

“True, but Jean’s there, and he’s as good at tending to wounds as you. And d’Artagnan will keep a weather eye on him. For all his hero worship he ain’t slow at calling Athos on his bullshit when it’s for his own good. You know that.”

“I suppose,” Aramis agreed reluctantly. “And it’s only for a few days.”

“If you say ‘what’s the worse that can happen’ I will punch you.” Porthos gave fair warning.

“I wouldn't dream of it." Aramis lied.

Despite what Athos frequently said, he did have some sense of preservation, after all.

Neither of them could have foreseen that Louis’ physician would continue to dither and that the King would be having too much fun living the simple bachelor life in his hunting lodge and so refused to overrule him. As war crept ever closer Treville increasingly struggled to hold onto his patience.

And then the letter came.

The first Aramis and Porthos knew of it was when Treville arrived in their campsite at dawn, looking drawn and pale, as if he had aged decades overnight.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Even dressed in just his shirt and braies Aramis was instantly on the alert.

“We received word that the Spanish were amassing a significant force on the French boarder,” Treville supplied. “Just over a week ago Athos took a company to investigate the rumours.”

“He left Paris without sending us word?” Porthos scowled.

“What could you have done? Your duty was here,” Treville reminded. “He didn’t want to worry you unduly.”

“Except something went wrong.” Aramis realised.

“It seems that the Spaniard’s intentions all along was to lure French forces to the boarder so they could interrogate then about our military strength. The company found itself vastly out manned and out gunned.  Athos did the only thing he could to avoid an outright massacre and surrendered.”

“It was a trap all along.” Aramis realised, with a pang.

“Yes.” Treville looked pained. “This letter is from Captain Ortiz setting out terms for a prisoner exchange.”

“Ortiz?” Porthos straightened. “I’ve heard of him. He’s a right ruthless bastard. He’d stop at nothing to find out what he needs.”

They all knew that Athos would never give up anything of import. But it would take a significant show of suffering before any of their carefully crafted pieces of mis-imformation would be accepted as fact.

“How many men?” Aramis forced himself to ask.

“Five dead, sixteen captured including Athos,” Treville found he had to swallow hard before he could continue. “And d’Artagnan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The order of St Michael was created by Louis XI as the highest order in the whole of France. Its motto was "the tremor of the immense ocean" hence the King's reference to turbulent waters. In history Louis conducted three people into the order during his reign but none of them were Musketeers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “D’Artagnan it’s good to see you.” Treville looked the Gascon over, noting how his face was pale with stress and shadowed with exhaustion. He didn’t even try to hide the way his hand shook slightly as he ran it through his hair, but apart from a yellowing bruise on his jaw, most likely from the ambush, the Minister couldn’t see any obvious injury. Still both duty and his fondness for the young man compelled him to ask. “Are you hurt?”
> 
> “No,” d’Artagnan gave a slightly bitter laugh. “None of us were. They saved all their attentions for Athos.”

**Prisoner Exchange. 3 days from the French border.**

 

Aramis and Porthos scanned the small group of Musketeers as they slowly advanced across the neutral ground. Each man was filthy from head to toe. A few were wearing makeshift bandages on arms, thighs or wrapped around foreheads, testament to how hard they had fought to avoid capture.

“Bertram, William ..,” Aramis counted them off with a frown. “That’s everyone but Athos,” He pressed his lips tightly together. “And d’Artagnan.”

The letter, setting out the terms of the prisoner exchange, had at least confirmed that both men still lived, but the decidedly shaky tilt to Athos’ usually precise hand, had been more of a worry than a comfort and they had no idea how d’Artagnan had fared in captivity.

“The lad’ll be alright,” Porthos declared stoutly. “He’s not the hot head he was. Athos has seen to that.”

“He’s a fine soldier,” Aramis agreed, his eyes still scanning the horizon. “I’m quite sure we’re worrying for nothing.”

Neither man could quite bring themselves to look at each other. For all that d’Artagnan had matured into a respected member of the regiment, with a head for strategy that made Athos quietly proud, his love for his mentor burned bright and deep. And with talk of war in the air, as the ranking officer Athos could expect little mercy from the Spanish, desperate to learn of Louis' intentions. It would only take a single rash action on d’Artagnan’s part, in a desperate attempt to shield his best friend from further harm, and their youngest brother would be lost to them.

“There he is. There’s d’Artagnan,” Porthos pointed, his relief loud and clear as his attention was caught by an altercation on the edge of the Spanish lines. There was some shoving on the part of the Spanish and some vehement protests from the Gascon. It seemed like he was refusing to cross. Porthos scowled. “I’d wager he ain’t willing to come without Athos.”

Aramis’ eyes narrowed sharply as one of the Spaniards pulled out his musket and levied it straight at d’Artagnan’s head. Beside him Porthos swore loudly. For a heart stopping moment Aramis feared the Gascon’s stubbornness might _actually_ be the death of him. Then Porthos put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, sharp and clear, one long and two short, Athos’ signal for _pull back_. D’Artagnan’s head whipped around so fast that in other circumstances Aramis might have found it comical. Instead he waved heartily, with the full extent of his arm, so the young man could not fail to see his brothers beckoning him across.

After an agonizing moment of hesitation d’Artagnan held up his hands and with a defeated look began to walk reluctantly towards the Musketeer lines.

“Oh,” Aramis said hollowly, as his keen eyes spotted the empty scabbard flapping at the young man’s hip. “They took his father’s sword.”

“Theivin’ bastards,” Porthos said the words like a curse. He knew how much d’Artagnan had cherished that sword. It was one of the few things of his father’s he still had. “It’s not like they had any need of it. It’ll just have been some foot soldier with a roving eye for a pretty piece.”

As soon as d’Aragnan drew near enough, Porthos didn’t hesitate. He reached out and wrapped his arms around the Gascon, pulling him in close, holding on even tighter when he felt how the usually self-assured young man clung desperately to him.

“There, there,” He murmured quietly into his hair. “You’re alright. You’re safe now. We’re here. Aramis and me, we’re both here.”

D’Artagnan pulled back, his face a study in anguish.

_“Athos.”_

“Would not thank you for getting your head blown off on his account,” Aramis said firmly, as he embraced d’Artagnan in his turn, keeping a hand on each shoulder as he ducked his head slightly to look the downcast young man in the eyes. “Athos will be along soon enough. It’s generally the ways of things in prisoner exchanges to leave the ranking officer until last.”

“Here,” Porthos offered a water skin. “You seem like you could use this.”

With a grateful look d’Artagnan took it and drank about half of it down, before pouring some into his hand and splashing it, with obvious relief, over his battered features, the strain of captivity showing clearly on his face.

“Word is they are bringing Athos up shortly.” Treville appeared.

“D’Artagnan it’s good to see you.” He looked the Gascon over, noting how his face was pale with stress and shadowed with exhaustion. He didn’t even try to hide the way his hand shook slightly as he ran it through his hair, but apart from a yellowing bruise on his jaw, most likely from the ambush, the Minister couldn’t see any obvious injury. Still both duty and his fondness for the young man compelled him to ask. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” d’Artagnan gave a slightly bitter laugh. “None of us were. They saved all their attentions for Athos.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a worried look. They’d been all too afraid of that.

“I tried,” d’Artagnan admitted miserably. “I so wanted to ..”

He faltered, closing his eyes against the memories. His features were sharp with guilt, unable to meet his friends’ eyes, all too painfully aware, between the Spaniard’s calculated cruelty and Athos’ own stubborn pride, just how _utterly_ helpless he had been. He looked across to the Spanish lines, his dark brown eyes still haunted by memories of his captivity. When he next spoke his voice was almost too soft to be heard.

“They made him scream.”

Aramis didn’t need to look at the others to know his horror would be reflected in their eyes. Before d’Artagnan had joined their ranks the three of them had been taken prisoner on occasion. Athos had always been the epitome of stoic, answering his captors’ blows with arch words and looks of disdain. His pride alone enough to make him swallow his cries at blows inflicted by fists and boots. The thought that his men, that _d’Artagnan,_ would have heard his suffering would only have increased that resolve. Aramis had seen what it took to push Athos to his very limits. He didn’t even want to think about what it might have taken to force him beyond them.

A lot could be done to a man in three days.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan looked down at his feet, taking his friends’ shocked silence as a rebuke. “I tried to give him what comfort I could.”

“Don’t be a dolt, we know _that_ ,” Aramis’ voice assured him, his tone so sure and _fond_ that d’Artagnan almost collapsed in relief. The long, elegant, fingers, that could fire a musket with such deadly accuracy, so very warm and kind as they squeezed the chill, bare skin of his neck. It was an entirely unlooked for comfort, a gift of love and care that brought him closer to tears than any of the hardships of recent days.

“He doesn’t always make it easy,” Treville added dryly. “For any of us.”

“He’s a right bugger for putting himself in the way of harm, is what he is,” Porthos groused, but they could all hear the fondness in his words.  “We’ve all seen it.”

“I tried to remind him that he had brothers who loved him and needed him to live.” D’Artagnan offered, still looking uncharacteristically disappointed with himself, but clearly encouraged by their staunch support. He ducked his head a little shyly. “That I needed him.”

“That’d do it, if anything would,” Porthos asserted reaching out to grip d’Artagnan’s shoulder firmly in reassurance. “Don’t you go selling yourself short. You’ve always had a way with him. It’s like he tries to be more _himself_ for your sake, even when his demons threaten to swallow ‘im.”

“How was he when you last saw him?” Treville wanted to know.

“Right from the start they singled him out,” d’Artagnan’s eyes darkened at the memory. “At first they used their boots and their fists and then when that didn’t get them the answers they wanted, they used whips and canes.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry, I know it’s hard,” Aramis looked genuinely regretful. “But ..”  
> “I know. You need me to tell you how badly he’s hurt,” d’Artagnan finished for him.

**The first day in captivity, somewhere on the French/Spanish border.**

From the beginning d’Artagnan had never felt so damned _helpless_. They were being held in what looked like someone’s dis-used barn. The stone walls were damp and covered in moss. Even if they could scale the slippery walls the windows were too small for a man to pass through. The floor was cold stones flags. The single door was heavily guarded.

Athos had been taken from them as soon as he had identified himself as their commanding officer. D’Artagnan’s hand had immediately gone to his sword. But all that had accomplished was every man present being forced to give up their weapons.

“Now then lad, don’t you worry,” Bertram had misinterpreted his downcast expression as he patted his shoulder kindly. “Chances are we’ll get them weapons back. Musketeers are too good a prize to go to waste. Ortiz will be wanting to ransom us for some high ranking Spaniard or other. Things like that have rules. Bit of a political game see.”

“And Athos?” d’Artagnan asked hollowly.

“Ah well,” Bertram, the oldest and most experienced of them all, looked pained. “I won’t lie to you. The Captain will most likely have a hard time of things. But they won’t kill him. His Majesty would take that right personal if he did and I doubt Ortiz has the authority to start up the war before his King’s ready.”

“Unless, they do it by accident,” Guillaume observed sourly. “Athos can be as immoveable as the mountain he’s named after and I’ve heard Ortiz has a real temper. It would be a simple matter to take things a step too far.”

“You hold your peace,” Bertram scolded. “Don’t go worrying the lad like that.

D’Artagnan found he couldn’t find his voice.

_“Settle down,” Athos had hissed, his fingers gripping d’Artagnan’s arm tight enough to bruise, even through his leathers. “And un-hand your sword. Have you learnt_ nothing _? Do not go courting trouble.”_

Every time he closed his eyes d’Artagnan could see the scathing look on his mentor’s face.

He couldn’t bear that Athos might die here feeling disappointed in him.

As the hours of inactivity drove the cold into their bones, the men began clustering together for warmth. D’Artagnan held himself apart, huddled in a corner, sick with worry for his best friend, torn between dwelling on what he might be going through and being too much of a coward to imagine it. When the door finally opened d’Artagnan scrambled to his feet, noting with concern that Athos’ boots and jacket were missing, and there was a freshly scabbed wound in his hairline and a bruise in the shape of a man’s knuckles on his too pale cheek. Plus a nasty dark red welt was just visible under his shirt.

D’Artagnan was brought up short.

“Was that done by a _horse whip_?” he blurted.

Athos blinked at him, somewhat uncertainly, as if he was struggling to focus.

“More than likely.” He managed.

“Come and sit down,” He hurried forward to put a hand on his arm. “Where else are you hurt?”

He tried to recall what Aramis had told him about head wounds. He knew they bled a lot. Also, he remembered their medic was often insistent about not letting the injured party sleep, but Athos already looked so exhausted he could barely stand. D’Artagnan realized he had absolutely no idea what to do for the best.

“I’m fine,” Athos said, slowly straightening up with a visible effort, very carefully removing his arm from his grasp. “Have you been treated well?”

“If you consider being cold, damp, hungry and generally inconvenienced, treated well, I suppose so,” d’Artagnan snarked, worry making his tone sharp. “I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

“I am endeavoring to arrange that.” Athos assured him.

D’Artagnan immediately felt dreadful hearing the bone deep weariness in his mentor’s tone.

“I know,” He softened his tone, trying to provide what comfort he could. “They haven’t harmed us. At worst we’re all a bit cold and bored.” He tried to find a way to lighten the mood like Porthos might have done. “It reminds me of Guard duty at the Palace on a particularly damp day, just without Porthos complaining about his wet braies getting stuck up his arse.”  

The smile he had hoped for was fleeting at best.

“After you provoked Ortiz I feared they might think to make an example of you.” Athos admitted.

D’Artagnan felt his knees go weak with shock. All that time that Athos had been at Ortiz’s mercy, had been the subject of his cruelty, and he had been worrying about him.

“Let me clean up those cuts for you,” He offered, once he could speak past the lump in his throat. “It’ll make us both feel better.”

“No, we’d best save the water for drinking,” Athos ran a hand through his hair, as he looked at the pails of water scattered about. Most were already more than half empty. “We can’t be sure when we’ll get more.”

“Will you at least eat something then?” d’Artagnan asked softly. “They brought us some bread. It’s not much but it’s still quite fresh and you need to keep your strength up.”

“Let me speak with the men first.”

Settling himself back against the wall d’Artagnan watched Athos, his love for the man a physical ache in his chest, as he ignored his own hurts to go around, enquiring after Gerard’s broken arm and the state of Georges’ head wound, finding an encouraging word for every man there. Only when he had spoken to the entire company did he allow himself to sink down next to d’Artagnan, close enough so that their shoulders were touching.

D’Artagnan sincerely hoped that was as much for Athos’ comfort as his own.

Watching as his mentor closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath through his nose, letting his head loll back against the wall, d’Artagnan could clearly see the dark shadows under his eyes and the stark pallor of his skin. He felt a surge of protectiveness for this man, who felt things so deeply, but constantly tried to take the weight of the world on his shoulders.  

“Here,” D’Artagnan said quietly as shrugged out of his jacket, causing the bloodshot eyes to snap open in surprise, as he laid it over Athos like a blanket, tucking it securely around his shoulders.

“You’ll get cold.” Athos protested.

“I’m not the one bleeding,” d’Artagnan pointed out. They had both had enough experience of Aramis’ methods to know loss of blood would make the patient feel the cold more acutely. “Besides, he added, with an innocent look. “We can keep each other warm.”

Athos scowled at him for the blatant attempt at manipulation. But d’Artagnan was unrepentant. He knew how hard his mentor found it to accept comfort for his own sake, especially when he needed to keep up appearances in front of the men.

But neither would he leave d’Artagnan to freeze.

“Oh, very well.” Athos huffed.

He obligingly lifted up his arm to let the Gascon slide underneath, pulling him in close. Pressed tight to his side, feeling the force of Athos’ ragged breathing and surrounded by the soft scents of leather, lavender soap and red wine that meant _Athos_ d’Artagnan let out a sigh of his own.

“Just how badly are you hurt?” He asked quietly.

“I’m sore but its manageable,” Athos admitted. “You don’t need to worry. Ortiz believes he is a master of his art, but there is nothing that man can do to me that can ever compare to the torture I have already endured in this world.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” d’Artagnan scowled at him, before adding more gently. “And I will always worry.”

“I know,” Athos said so quietly d’Artagnan almost didn’t hear him. “And I am grateful for it.”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments after that.

“Bertram tells me I have you to thank for seeing to it that the men were fed,” Athos turned his head slightly to look at him. “That was well done.”

“I only did what you would have done if you were here.” d’Artagnan countered.

“You bartered your father’s sword for their bread,” Athos remarked with a quiet pride that warmed d’Artagnan right down to his toes. He smiled in genuine amusement. “Did you really tell the Spaniard that if he did not honour his end of the bargain, your dead father’s spirit would haunt his every waking moment?”

“We’re their prisoners,” d’Artagnan shrugged lightly. “I thought he might try to take advantage so a little encouragement wouldn’t go amiss.”

D’Artagnan pulled the round of bread from his jacket. There was no need for Athos to know the Spanish had only brought enough rolls for the men to have one each, clearly hoping they would simply leave their Captain to go hungry.

“I saved you some.” He offered it.

Athos merely gave him a fond look before tearing the food in two and offering half of it back.

“There’s no need,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “Every man here gave me a part of their ration so we’d all have an equal share.”

“And I saved this for you,” Pierre, one of the younger recruits came forward shyly with a large piece of cheese. “I had it in my pocket to eat on the road, but we were attacked before I got to it. It would be my honour if you’d accept it.”

“Best eat up, Captain,” Bertram encouraged from across the room. “Doubtless them Spanish have more tricks up their sleeves. You’ll need your wits about you.”

 “Thank you,” Athos looked around the room, his gratitude at their brotherhood shining in his eyes. “All of you.”

“United we stand,” Pierre spoke up loudly. “And any Spaniard who thinks he can come between us and our brothers can go to hell.”

That provoked a rousing cheer of all for “one and one for all” to echo, around the room as Athos tore into the bread and cheese with a good heart.

“I put a whole round of sausage in my jacket at breakfast,” d’Artagnan sighed wistfully.

“You’d eaten it before we’d gone two leagues, hadn’t you?” Athos teased. D’Artagnan’s prodigious appetite was well known around the Garrison.

“One.” D’Artagnan admitted with a wry smile.

When Athos fell into an exhausted sleep with his head resting trustingly on the Gascon’s shoulder, to the collective approval of the assembled company, it was one of the proudest moments of d’Artagnan’s life.

Head wound or not he simply didn’t have the heart to wake him.

_The patient might be woozy or disorientated from lack of blood, or even some other injury,” Aramis’ voice said helpfully in his head. “As long as there is a lump and the eyes seem the same size there shouldn’t be too much to worry about.”_

Well, there was a lump the size of a goose egg.

Reaching over, d’Artagnan gently prised one eye lid and then the other open. Satisfied he settled back down to catch what sleep he could.

**Present Day. Prisoner Exchange. French/Spanish border.**

“The next time the Spanish brought him back, they had stripped him to his skin,” d’Artagnan continued. “I think they hoped to shame him in front of the company.”

“It’s a standard tactic,” Treville observed, although the way his eyes flashed dark with fury at the thought of Athos being treated with such disrespect was at odds with his dispassionate tone. “Stripping a man naked makes him feel more vulnerable. He has to rely on his own strength of character rather than the trappings of birth or rank.”

“I’d wager they hadn’t got the measure of Athos though,” Porthos put in. “He wouldn’t let a little thing like being in his birthday suit rob ‘im of his dignity.”

“If anything I think he became even haughtier,” d’Artagnan recalled, with a fleeting smile. “And once the men could see the marks of what he had endured for their sake, their love and loyalty knew no bounds.”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s hard,” Aramis looked genuinely regretful. “But ..”

“I know. You need me to tell you how badly he’s hurt,” d’Artagnan finished for him.He wrapped his arms around his torso, tucking his hands under his armpits, looking thoroughly miserable as he tried to gather his thoughts. He felt the warm weight of Porthos’ hand settle comfortingly between his shoulder blades, giving him strength.

“There was hardly an inch of him that wasn’t marked by a whip or a blow,” d’Artagnan felt sick as he recalled the image of Athos’ battered body. “His ribs were clearly paining him and he had taken a blow to the head which had bled a lot. But his pupils were sharp and his speech wasn’t slurred.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Aramis tried to be encouraging.

In response, d’Artagnan merely bit his lip and let his eyes slide away.

“There’s something else though,” Porthos noted with a frown. “Something you ain’t telling us.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is he .. dead?” Pierre asked, an edge of fear in his voice.

**Second day in captivity, somewhere on the French/Spanish border.**

They had come for Athos again just after dawn on the second day. Now it was almost dusk and he still hadn’t been returned. Knowing that his absence would be hardest on d’Artagnan the others had done their best to keep his spirits up, taking it in turns to share their stories of Athos, his generosity in sharing his skills, how his brilliant tactical thinking had saved many a life or those small acts of kindness which so defined the man, but had meant to world to the recipient.

When the door finally opened, d’Artagnan had to be held back by both Bertram and Guillaume as two Spanish guards had literally thrown Athos’ seemingly lifeless body into the room. D’Artagnan’s heart almost stopped as his best friend didn’t even flinch as he landed hard on the stone floor, nor so much as twitch as, with calculated cruelty, the Spanish threw a bucket of cold water over him, turning his already translucent flesh positively blue with cold.

His naked body clearly displayed every single act of cruelty inflicted by their captors. But d’Artagnan’s eyes were drawn to his exposed arm. The precise cut had become an inflamed, jagged, maw of a wound, with no sign of Aramis’ neat stitches.

“Clean and dry,” d’Artagnan protested to no-one in particular, noting the tell-tale signs of infection already beginning to set in around it’s edges. “Aramis said to keep the wound clean and dry.”

As the door slammed behind the guards d’Artagnan was released to drop to his knees beside his friend. He placed a gentle hand on a freezing cold shoulder.

“Athos?”

Tearing off a couple of pieces from the hem of his shirt, he took a moment to clean some of the blood and dirt off the wound, then carefully covered it. He knew it probably wouldn’t help much but he had to at least try.

“Is he .. dead?” Pierre asked, an edge of fear in his voice.

“Now then lad, not even the Spanish would be stupid enough to try and revive a corpse,” Bertram offered with brusque kindness. “Although, that don’t mean this cold won’t do for the Captain unless we rally round.”

“My shirt’ll fit him.” A voice offered.

“And my jacket.”

“My feet are the same size as his. He can have my boots.”

“Boots ain’t no good without stockings. My mother knitted mine from our best wool. Athos is welcome to ‘em.”

“And my breeches,” Another added, “And I’ll be right proud to give ‘em up for all he’s suffered for us and for France.”

D’Artagnan was grateful for Bertram’s steady support as between them they got Athos seemingly lifeless body dressed in the donated articles, pushing pliant and unresponsive limbs into arm holes and tugging warm knitted stockings over ice cold feet. They were just putting on the boots when the touch of their hands finally stirred Athos back to panicked and disorientated consciousness.

“Easy,” d’Artagnan soothed, pulling Athos head down into his lap and brushing the matted and tangled hair back from his face as the man’s eyes darted anxiously around. “It’s alright. It’s just us. You’re safe.”

“Likely he’ll need this,” Bertram swatted down, offering a cup of water. Then, satisfied that he had made his Captain as comfortable as possible Bertram gave d’Artagnan a nod and respectfully withdrew, trying to give the two friends what privacy he could in the cold, cramped space.

“Can you drink?” d’Artagnan asked.

Without waiting for an answer he slipped a hand under Athos’ head and raised it up so his lips could meet the vessel. He watched approvingly as Athos gulped down a few mouthfuls, before sinking back in exhaustion. Pressing his lips together in worry at the uncharacteristic sign of weakness d’Artagnan ran his fingers gently through Athos’ hair.

“When we don’t return Treville will send re-enforcements and Aramis and Porthos will be at the head of them. They could be here any day.  So, you have to hold on. Just a little longer.”  

D’Artagnan helped him sit up. He sat slumped against the wall, too exhausted to maintain his usual upright bearing, his hands visibly shaking. When he noticed d’Artagnan looking he clenched them tightly into fists, turning his knuckles white and let his head drop even further. The Gascon ducked his head a little, trying and failing, to catch a glimpse of his brother’s expression.

“Something I said?” he tried to keep his tone light.

“I have made arrangements, in the event of my death.”

“Don’t talk that that, you’re _not_ going to die,” He protested. He tried for levity “You know Treville would have me mucking out the stables for the rest of my life if I returned without you.”

“Treville will not fault you, he knows my first concern must be for the regiment. As do Aramis and Porthos. No blame will be attached to you if I don’t return.” Athos said seriously, without a hint of a jest. “If I should die ..”

“Athos.”

“If I should die,” Athos repeated a little more firmly. “Please tell the others .. they were always in my heart.”

“I will,” d’Artagnan vowed softly. “You have my word.”

Athos smiled gently at him. A look so full of love that d’Artagnan thought his heart might burst.

“I am sorry you have had to endure this. But I am glad not to be alone.”

D’Artagnan did not even want to think about how easily that might have occurred had he not sought permission to be excused from the King’s hunting party. The men loved Athos fiercely but the former Comte rarely opened up to anyone outside their small circle. D’Artagnan did not have Aramis’ strength of belief but it seemed fitting that it was his love for the man which had led him here.

“I’m glad too.”

Still d’Artagnan wasn’t about to leave this man, who meant the world to him, simply to languish he would just have to find another way to sustain him. He thought he had just the thing.

“When we get out of here I’m going to ask Constance to marry me.” He declared.

The two of them hadn’t yet spoken of matrimony, too caught up in the freedom of just being together. Also they had wanted to wait for the worst of the palace gossip over Bonacieux’s death to die down. But the trials of the last few days had hardened d’Artagnan’s resolve to seize his happiness where he could.

“I am certain your suit will be favorably received,” Athos’ battered features softened with genuine pleasure, just as d’Artagnan had hoped. Although, his mentor’s look seemed altogether too knowing to be quite the distraction the Gascon had intended. “It will be my honour to walk Constance down the aisle.”

“But I was going to ask you to stand up with me!” d’Artagnan protested, somewhat put out at having his thunder stolen.

“Constance’s father is no longer living,” Athos reminded. “Two of her brothers are dead and the youngest has his hands full tending to the family’s holdings, his wife and their four children. Constance did not wish to delay matters until he might be able to find time to make the week long journey to Paris,” He looked slightly bashful. “And she and I have always had something of an understanding.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan allowed fondly. “You have always been a good friend to her and she ..” He broke off as he came to a slightly panicked realization. “Wait, she’s already asked you?”

Part of him was thrilled that Constance was already planning their future together. But he couldn’t help but feel ever so slightly terrified as well.

“I was certain that either Aramis or Porthos would be proud to stand by your side.” Athos said by way of apology.

“Or perhaps both,” d’Artagnan smiled. “For how could I ever choose between them?”

“Indeed,” Athos’ lips quirked briefly. Then he sobered. “I cannot gift you the title of la Fere. Should you wish to be raised to the nobility, a path I do not particularly recommend, you will have to do that by your own efforts through your service to the crown. But the house and the family lands are mine to dispose of as I choose.”

“Wait, I thought you turned your lands over to the people of Pinon?”

“I gave them the estate lands to farm, the family holdings are rather more extensive, including the house and the land it stands upon and several other properties and parcels of land, enough to provide a substantial sum,” Athos corrected. "Porthos’ pride will never allow him to claim a sous of the Baron de Belgard’s estate. Aramis’ large family can spare nothing to support him. LaBarge burnt down your farm. None of you have much more than your stipends as Musketeers and fighting is a dangerous business. Did you truly think I would I would leave my brothers destitute if it were in my power to avoid it?”

“I never even thought about it. I care about as much for your wealth and status as you do,” d’Artagnan said honestly. “I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness but I would give everything I have to keep my brother by my side.”

Wordlessly Athos reached out and put a shaky hand on d’Aratgnan’s thigh, the younger man smiled at the gesture and covered the hand with his own, giving it a little squeeze. Athos met his eyes.

“I can make no promises. But I give you my word I will do all in my power to endure."

D'Artagnan took comfort from that. At least until the temperature dropped and Athos began to cough. A harsh wet sound that quite took his breathe away/  

 


	9. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Illness tends to settle on his chest,” Aramis raised a brow. “Or did you think his fondness for scarves was merely a fashion statement?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of relief from the angst

**Present Day Prisoner Exchange somewhere on the French/Spanish border**

“He tried to pretend it was nothing,” d’Artagnan bit his lip, his face a picture of worry. “But I could see how swiftly it was sapping what little strength he had.”

“Dry or wet?” Aramis asked at once.

“Wet,” d’Artagnan replied instantly. “And harsh. Sometimes the pain of it bent him almost double.”

“Like a fire was burning in his chest.” Porthos nodded.

“You’ve seen it before.” D’Artagnan realized with a start.

“S’an old trouble.” Porthos nodded.

In the months after he had fled Pinon Athos had thoroughly neglected his health. That first winter of their acquaintance his habit of drinking far too much and eating far too little, whilst pushing his body beyond all reasonable limits, to prove himself as a musketeer, had seen him laid low with a truly vicious cough. Fool that he was, he had tried to carry on as normal, until a fit of coughing had actually bent him double during a bout, almost impaling himself on Cornet’s blade in the process.

After that, Treville had _ordered_ him to rest.  

Returning from Palace duty Porthos had found him huddled, sweat soaked and miserable in his bed. He had set too, briskly stripping Athos of his damp soaked shirt and braies, frowning slightly when he realized the man didn’t seem to own a nightshirt and probably just usually slept fully dressed. He’d solved the problem, for now, by simply fetching one of his own, soft and billowing and infused with the scent of lavender. Then he had remade the bed with sheets, stiff and fresh from the garrison’s laundry, before tucking his best wool blanket firmly around him.   

Athos’ startled look at being the recipient of such simple kindness would follow Porthos to the grave.

“Illness tends to settle on his chest,” Aramis raised a brow. “Or did you think his fondness for scarves was merely a fashion statement?”

Aramis had spent the following days mixing up infusions of herbs and hot water and requiring Athos to inhale the steam. He had then had him drink a tea made from licorice root and massaged his chest with a warming tincture comprises of goose fat, garlic, and ginger. At meal times he had fed him hot beef tea and, as soon as he was a little stronger, warming soups and finally the best beef stew from the Tavern d’Or, until he was fit to report.

“Course, we’ve had to buy him a few over the years,” Porthos smiled at the memory. “He wore the first one that Aramis got him every day until it was too thin and threadbare to fit for purpose.” 

**Six years previously, Athos’ quarters. Musketeer Garrison, Paris.**

The day had dawned bright and clear, not too damp as to aggravate his chest and not too cold as to stifle his breathing. As he buckled on his sword belt Athos still found himself feeling un-characteristically nervous about his return to duty, the memories of his body feeling so sick and weak still at the forefront of his mind.

Having come quite so close to death he had realized that he did not seek it quite as ardently as he had once believed.

It had astonished him that a man as proud as Porthos had not hesitated to care for even his most base bodily needs, his grip sure and steady as he helped him to the chamber pot, his hands strong and gentle, as a cool cloth soothed away his fever, giving up his own treasured belongings for Athos’ sake.

For his part Aramis had completed eschewed the company of his many paramours to sit by Athos’ bedside. He had spent hours pouring over medical journals, a little furrow settling in his forehead as he sought the most effective remedies, calling in favours, visiting markets and monasteries and even consulting with the King’s physician to track down the supplies he needed.

As the elder brother Athos had always seen it as his role to take care of Thomas.

It had never been the other way around. Nor had he expected it.

He had never had cause to question that until now.

“You’re up,” Aramis burst into his room, all smiles and bright energy. “And dressed as well. Excellent. Porthos was worried so many buttons would defeat you. I told him you were more than equal to the task.”

“Still, it ain’t roll call yet. Wouldn’t do any harm for us to sit a while,” Porthos said, as he followed Aramis into the room. Going to sit on the bed, he patted the space beside him.

The pointed look he gave him made Athos think the sweat on his brow due to his recent exertions, as he had shoved arms into sleeves and feet into boots and seeing to all those dammed interminable buttons, hadn’t gone un-noticed.

He sat down warily, half expecting a scolding. Instead, Porthos smiled at him.

“Aramis and I have something for you.”

“You have already done too much.” Athos said with raw honesty, made humble by their selfless care.

“Eh now,” Now Porthos did frown. “None of that.”

“We are brothers, are we not?” Aramis advanced upon him, pulling a bundle from his jacket with a soft smile on his face, as he offered it. “We take care of each other.”

Athos looked dumbly at the soft, wool, bundle, feeling a little overcome.

“What’s this?”

“This, my dearest Athos, is a scarf. I would think someone with your keen observational skills and obvious intelligence would recognize such a thing,” Aramis said loftily as he took the liberty of wrapping it around the back of Athos neck and knotting it loosely around his neck before tucking the ends warmly into his shirt. He patted his brother’s chest with clear satisfaction. “There now, isn't that better?”

“It is very comfortable,” Athos admitted, unable to stop his fingers reaching up to stroke the buttery soft material. He did not miss the pleased look which passed between Porthos and Aramis as he did so. He could already feel the way it was warming him, a barrier against future malady, like being wrapped in his brothers’ love. Still feeling vulnerable from the severity of his illness _that_ thought brought a lump to his throat. He straightened up, speaking stiffly, as he strove to master his wayward emotions. “I shall, of course, reimburse you for the expense.”

“You shall do nothing of the sort,” Aramis corrected, not unkindly. “It is a gift and it would be very poor manners indeed to refuse it. You shall merely say “Thank you, Aramis and Porthos for the lovely scarf.”

“Thank you, Aramis and Porthos, for the lovely scarf,” Athos intoned dutifully, displaying that droll sense of humour which Aramis so loved in him. Then he smiled, a little bashfully. “And for everything you have done. I could not have wished for better brothers in my time of need.”

The look that passed between Aramis and Porthos at _that_ made him feel at once very small and incredibly valued.

“I’m betting he’s an only child,” Porthos declared.

“He certainly doesn’t seem to understand that there’s nothing brothers won’t do for each other,” Aramis concurred. “We will have to work on that.”

**Present Day. Prisoner Exchange somewhere on the French/Spanish border.**

“If he’s sickening it might explain why they’re taking their time bringing him up,” Treville observed with a frown. “How was he when you last saw him?”

“That’s just it,” d’Artagnan looked utterly bereft. “They took him away again only hours later. He’d had nothing more but more bread and water and precious little of that and almost no sleep. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Bugger.” Porthos said succinctly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t worry, we didn’t do him any permanent injury,” Ortiz called, as he gave a mocking bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is one of my favourite chapters ..

**Present Day. Prisoner Exchange somewhere on the French/Spanish border.**

“Alright,” Treville snapped into what they had always fondly termed “Captain mode” as he thought things through. “Once Athos is across, I’ll start moving the men out. You gents see to him. I’ll order a cart standing ready in case he needs it.”

“A cart?” d’Artagnan visibly blanched.

The only way Athos would ever consent to riding in a cart like an invalid was if he was actually incapable of standing.

“Just as a precaution,” Treville reassured him. “I had Roger brought down as well. Your horse is here too. None of them had strayed far from where you were ambushed.”

“Something’s happening,” Porthos scowled across at the Spanish lines, trying to see what the commotion was. “Bout damned time too.”

“There, that’s Athos.” Aramis’ sharp eyes were the first to spot him.

He craned his neck a little as he tried to see better through the early morning mist. Even from this distance the dark bruises and livid red cuts marring Athos’ features, signs of a vicious beating, stood out starkly against his too pale skin. He was dressed in nothing but shirt and breeches, scant protection against the cold morning. His feet, sinking into the cold, wet, mud, were completely bare.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

“He don’t look so good.” Porthos murmured unhappily.

“No,” Aramis agreed flatly. “He doesn’t.”

One of the Spanish guards gave him a hard shove in the right direction, the man who was the very master of poise and balance on the practice ground, staggered wildly, barely keeping his footing. Tellingly Athos kept his eyes firmly on the ground in front of him as he progressed impossibly slowly across the uneven terrain, his hands still tightly bound in front of him.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t do him any _permanent_ injury,” Ortiz called, as he gave a mocking bow.

“ _Oh._ ”

That small, utterly _lost_ , sound from the usually exuberant d’Artagnan bore testament to the fact that Athos must look considerably worse than the last time he had seen him. Wordlessly Aramis slipped his arm comfortingly around the young man’s shoulders and every man in the Regiment fell silent as they watched Athos’ progress, desperately willing him forward with each laborious step.

And then Athos was taken with a violent coughing fit which drove him to his hands and knees, his head hanging low, his shirt slipping to expose a vulnerable shoulder, to the elements.

“Dear God.”

Treville looked sickened at the dark purple bruises which stood our starkly against Athos’ pale skin. They all knew that bruising like that could kill a man, the blood pooling inside the body making a man as weak as if it had spilled on the ground.

“C’mon, Athos,” Porthos murmured unhappily, desperately wanting to go to his brother’s aid. Beside him, Aramis had started to pray, working his rosary through his fingers with tense, little clicks. “Up you get now. Don’t let those Spanish bastards beat you.”

Almost as if he had heard, with a supreme effort of will, Athos hauled himself to his feet and began moving slowly forward again, only to fall once more, this time sprawling full length in the mud as his body jerked painfully with each cough.

It was too much for Porthos to bear. He growled low in his throat and started moving forward towards the prone figure, only to be held back by Treville’s hand fiercely gripping his arm.

“Are you _trying_ to get them to cause a war?” He rebuked. “You know the terms were that no men, except the exchanged prisoners, could cross the neutral ground.”

“We’re goin’ be at war soon enough anyway, what difference will it make?” Porthos challenged. He pointed in Athos’s direction. “Look at him. His strength is gone. He ain’t gonna make it without help! We can’t just leave him there to die.”

“Athos put himself in the line of fire to save the lives of the men under his command. I will not dis-honour that sacrifice by now putting them at risk in some pointless skirmish.” Treville retorted sharply, he turned back to look at Athos, as if he could impel the un-moving figure to advance by sheer force of will. “He’ll make it. He has to. For all our sakes.”

“Minister,” Aramis protested unhappily. He knew Treville loved their taciturn brother like he was his own son and would feel his death as hard as any of them, but he also knew the man’s ultimate loyalty was to the good of France. “Athos is one of the strongest men I’ve ever known but even he has his limits.”    

They had all seen it. Men who fell during battle, but were just too weak to raise themselves up, drowning face down in the muck and mire. It was a truly agonizing death.

“They planned this,” d’Artagnan’s tone was suddenly tight with fury. “They did everything they could to sap his strength, so that the whole Regiment would be forced to stand here and watch him die, out there all alone.”

“And no blame attached to Ortiz in the eyes of his King if Athos does for himself.” Porthos scowled.

“Peace, both of you,” Aramis used the arm around the Gascon’s shoulders to give him a comforting squeeze. “I have an idea. Give me a moment.”

Turning smartly on his heel Aramis was aware of the others staring bemusedly after him. Knowing Athos had no time to waste he secured his objective and returned as swiftly as possible.

“Roger.” D’Artagnan beamed his approval.

“Roger?” Porthos looked skeptical. “I mean, he’s a fine horse but ..”

“Minister?” Aramis tilted his head, asking for permission.

“There’s nothing in the terms about horses crossing the neutral ground,” Treville grinned dangerously.

Smiling Aramis knotted the reins and lifted them over Roger’s head so they did not drag on the ground. Then he un-buckled one of his belts and looped it around Roger’s neck. The stallion was already tossing his head and stamping his feet in his impatience to get to his rider’s side. All Aramis needed to do was let him go.

“What trickery is this?” Ortiz, protested, as Roger began to pick his way across the churned up ground. “Does honour mean so little to Musketeers? Your man gave his word the terms would not be broken.”

“Your terms say no man may cross, it does not mention horses,” Treville corrected levelly. “Surely the Spanish have sufficient honour to keep to terms they themselves devised?”

Roger plodded steadily forward, until he could reach out his long neck and nose gently at his rider, his soft breath huffing at his hair. Raising his head, Athos blinking fuzzily, as if he could not quite believe his eyes.

“He won’t be able to mount,” Porthos fretted. “He hasn’t the strength for it.”

“He won’t need to,” d’Artagnan said confidently. “Roger will take care of him.”

With a shaking hand Athos took hold of the neck strap in a death grip. With a quiet word to Roger he began to haul himself upright, as the beast stood as still as a statue, as he had been trained to do during many tedious place receptions.

“Oh, that’s right clever that is.” Porthos murmured admiringly.

Another quiet command and Roger began backing up, careful step by careful step, to give Athos a little more leverage, until he finally found his feet.

“Thank God.” Treville managed.

For a moment, man and horse just stood there, Athos’ face buried in Roger’s neck. Even from this distance Aramis could see how violently Athos was shaking. With a sick lurch he realized that even Roger’s friendly assistance might not be in time to save him.

“C’mon Athos!,” Porthos called loudly, unable to contain himself any longer. “Just a few more steps.”

His words released a torrent of calls from the assembled musketeers, each adding their own shouts of encouragement. Athos lifted his head and said something to Roger and then together man and beast began to shuffle with agonizingly painful slowness towards the Musketeer lines.

“He’ll make it,” d’Artagnan said tightly, not taking his eyes off Athos for a moment. “He promised Constance he would walk her down the aisle at our wedding. It’ll take more than the Spanish to make him break that vow.”

“You finally asked her?” Porthos’ head whipped around to frown sharply at him. “How come we’re just hearing about this now?”

“Because _I_ haven’t actually asked her yet,” D’Artagnan shook his head. “But apparently Constance has been making plans. She asked Athos.”

“Constance has waited all her life for a love like yours,” Aramis smiled warmly. “And you’re right Athos would move heaven and earth rather than disappoint either of you in such a matter.”

When Athos finally staggered within reach, a huge cheer went up from the men. Reaching out Aramis sawed at the ropes which bound his hands, letting them fall uselessly to the ground. Porthos looping an arm around his waist, holding him upright.

“Mind his shoulder.” Aramis warned.

Porthos nodded his acknowledgement, shifting about to take as much weight of his weight as he could without injuring Athos further.

As Athos sagged in Porthos’ grip he found his face pressed to stiff, damp, leather. Porthos’ arms a band across his back, holding him together, preventing him from shattering into a million pieces, as one hand, with its large, gentle fingers, cupped the back of his head.

“You did us proud, brother,” he murmured, his warm breath ghosting across his ear. “Time to lean on us for a bit now, eh?”

Somehow, Athos found the strength to raise his head, although he did not stir out of the circle of Porthos’ arms as his eyes sought out his fellow prisoners.

“Is every man here?” Blinking slightly he looked to Treville for confirmation.

“Every last one, thanks to you,” Treville assured him, his smile fond and proud.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Athos assured him. “Merely a few pieces of mis-information which may serve us well in the future.”

“I would expect no less. I shall see to it that the King hears of your courage in defense of France,” Treville soothed, as he cupped a hand around Athos’ bare neck. “You have served your regiment with honour and I am heartily glad to see you safe.”

“Thank you, Minister.”

Two pink spots appeared in Athos’s pale cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, feeling clearly flustered by such fulsome praise, from a man he so admired, after days of pain and humiliation at the hands of someone who was everything he detested.

Then a pair of familiar boots, appeared in his eye line even as careful hands draped a cloak, still warm from its owners’ body, smelling of gunpowder, cologne and _Aramis_ , filled his nostrils, around Athos’ shoulders, Porthos shifting slightly so Aramis could tuck it between them. It wrapped right around him like a talisman against all harm. Flicking his eyes upward, Athos saw his brother, chin pressed into his neck, biting his lip in concentration, as he did up the buttons, carefully sliding every one of the large brass discs into place, until Athos was firmly encased in soft, the warm, wool.

“There now, that’s better,” A gentle hand cupped Athos’ pale cheek, the loving caress a sharp contrast to Ortiz’ rough handling as a feather light kiss landed on his brow followed by the sign of the cross formed by Aramis’ thumb. “Welcome home. You were sorely missed, my brother.”

Swallowing hard against a sense of wonder as to how he had ever been fortunate enough, raw and wounded as he had been when he first encountered them, to earn the love and loyalty of these men, Athos rested his forehead against Aramis’ shoulder.

“It seems I can withstand the worst of tortures,” Athos huffed a watery sort of breath. “But I have no defense against simple kindness.”

Turning his head slightly, Athos saw d’Artagnan, looking pale under his tan, his fists clenched and his heart in his eyes. Weakly he lifted an arm in invitation and d’Artagnan came forward and flung his arms around Athos’ neck as silent tears leaked out under his closed lids.

“It’s alright,” Athos soothed, patting his back gently. “We’re alright. You did well. Like a true Musketeer.”

“I’ll kill Ortiz for what he did to you,” D’Artagnan vowed. “I swear, I will run that bastard through.”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a worried look. They knew Ortiz by reputation as a ruthless soldier and a sadistic man. Worse, he was also a consummate swordsman, arguably the equal of Athos. And far more vindictive. Neither of them wished to see their hot-headed Gascon at his mercy.

“You shall do nothing of the sort,” Athos chided, his patient tone that of an elder brother rather than a military commander, as he ran his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair. “Or do you not trust me to handle my own affairs?”

D’Artagnan flushed, realizing that he had committed what might have been seen as an unpardonable offence to a man who did not love him as Athos did. It was Athos who had suffered at Ortiz’s hands, it was his right to seek satisfaction.

“My apologies,” He dropped his eyes, pressing his lips together unhappily, before meeting Athos’ eyes with a more than a hint of that Gascon stubbornness. “It’s just .. he hurt you.”

“And yet I still live,” Athos assured him. He eyed the younger man sternly. “This is my affair and I will have your word that you will not challenge Ortiz.”

“He can barely stand and he’s still fuckin’ brilliant.” Porthos murmured.

Aramis hummed his agreement. Appealing to his sense of honour was a sure fire way to ensure d’Artagnan’s obedience.

Sure enough, d’Artagnan scowled, his body language positively bristling with rebellion as he warred between his desire to revenge his best friend and his respect for Athos’ command. But neither of them were surprised when obedience finally won out. D’Artagnan was no longer the brash young stripling who had charged into the Garrison without a thought, to demand revenge for his father and he would rather die than disappoint his mentor.

“You have it.”

“Good,” Athos favoured him with a gentle smile, patting his shoulder fondly, before tilting his head towards his scabbard. “I do believe I have something for you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No matter how hard I try it seems impossible to shake you two off.” Athos allowed fondly.  
> “Then maybe it’s time you stopped trying.” Porthos suggested.

**Present Day. Prisoner Exchange somewhere on the French/Spanish border.**

Curious, d’Artagnan followed Athos’ gaze, his eyes widening as he recognized a _very_ familiar blade at his mentor’s hip. Needing to be sure he reached out his hand and wrapped his fingers around the hilt, drawing it steadily from the scabbard. Even as his heart leapt with joy at being re-united with his father’s sword, his chest tightened with unease. He knew _exactly_ how much store that Spanish soldier had set by acquiring such a fine piece. He would not have given it up lightly.

“Athos, what did you do?” He asked guardedly.

Athos opened his mouth to reply, only to break off as he coughed harshly, his words quite stolen away. It took both d’Artagnan and Porthos to hold him up as Athos sagged weakly in their grasp, fighting to steady his breathing, swiping uselessly at the cold tears leaking from his eyes. Turning his head away he spat a ball of phlegm, flecked with blood, onto the ground.

“Talk later,” Porthos instructed d’Artagnan. “We need to get ‘im out of this cold.”

“Agreed,” Treville added the weight of his authority. He raised his voice slightly. “Du Pont, take Roger back to the horse lines.”

Eager to be helpful Du Pont, a recent addition to the regiment, hurried forward to take Roger’s bridle, only to have the usually placid horse roll his eyes and bare his teeth, snapping at him for his trouble, forcing the young man to take a hurried step backwards, worriedly inspecting his sleeve for damage.

“Roger.” Athos chided, without any heat.

“It seems like he’s not going to hand you over to just anyone,” Aramis grinned fondly at the horse’s loyalty. “I’d best take him.”

“No, you’re needed here,” d’Artagnan stepped forward, lightly rubbing Roger’s forehead in gratitude for saving Athos’ life, pleased when the horse leaned trustingly into his familiar touch. “I’ll take him.”

“You should be resting.” Aramis objected.

“I will, just as soon as I see Roger settled.” D’Artagnan promised.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a wordless look. They had long since noted the Gascon’s habit of taking comfort in caring for their horses when he was in danger of feeling overwhelmed.

“Alright,” Porthos allowed kindly. “But don’t take too long. You _really_ don’t want to make us come looking for you, right now.”

“I won’t,” D’Artagnan agreed, pressing his lips together. “I just need ..”

“We know,” Aramis assured him. “There’ll be a warm bath and a hot dinner waiting just as soon as you’re ready.”

D’Artagnan wordlessly nodded his thanks, around the lump in his throat, grateful beyond words that his brothers understood him so well. He reached out a hand and touched Athos’ arm lightly, love and relief shining in eyes. Athos’ lips’ quirked, just a fraction, in response.

Basking in his mentor’s approval d’Artagnan looped Roger’s reins back over his head to lead him away, unable to resist shooting a slightly smug grin at Du Pont as Roger plodded along behind him, as placid as a child’s first pony. Treville shook his head fondly at the resilience of youth and then turned his attention to his Captain, who was now being held upright by Aramis and Porthos.

“You gents stay put. I’ll have one of the men bring the cart up. Use my quarters. The room is big enough to accommodate you all. I’ll arrange hot water and food.” He looked at Aramis. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you, Minister,” Aramis nodded respectfully. “I packed all the supplies I might need.”

“Alright,” Treville looked steadily at Athos. “Let Aramis tend to your hurts and eat whatever Porthos brings you.”

“There are others here who will require Aramis’ attention,” Athos protested, despite the fact that Treville’s words had been a clear order. “Georges has a head wound and Gerard’s arm is broken ..”

“And I have the Regimental Surgeon, Jean _and_ Francois who are more than skilled enough to see to them. Whereas Aramis is the only one I trust to have the truth of your injuries.” Treville countered, with a knowing look.

Athos drew himself up a little, lifting his chin as he looked the Minister in the eye.

“With respect, Minister, I would rather go with my men. They are my responsibility.”

“And you led them admirably. They have seen the depth of your love for them and the strength of your courage,” Treville praised softly. “Now you need time to rest and recuperate without having to concern yourself with keeping up appearances.”

“Even so,” Athos displayed some of that iron will which must have driven Ortiz to distraction. “I wish to go with the men.”

Treville tried to hold onto his temper. Sixteen of his men, his musketeers held captive. Ever since the news had reached him he had been haunted by memories of Savoy. The fear that this time none would return. He had barely eaten or slept, all the while knowing that this man who he loved like his own son, who would put himself in the line of fire to protect those under his command without a second thought, would be the most likely casualty of all.  

“What are you so afraid of us seeing, eh?” Porthos asked quietly. “Coz you gotta know the only thing we care about is you safe and well.”

Oh. _Of course._ Treville realized.                    

“You have been missing for three days mon frère,” Aramis pointed out. “You cannot truly believe we will allow another to see to your care?”

“You may have no choice,” Athos said bleakly. “Ortiz pulled my shoulder out of joint. He manipulated it several times.”

“That’s what made you scream,” Porthos blurted, immediately wishing he could bite out his tongue as Athos’ shoulders visibly drooped at this confirmation that his men had heard his weakness.

“I can no longer feel my arm,” Athos admitted quietly. “If it should be necessary to amputate I would rather my friends were not required to witness the procedure.”

“Don’t we get a say in that?” Porthos protested.

“Athos, we are your brothers, we will feel your agony whether we are there to see it or not,” Aramis chided gently. “If you wish to spare us pain, let us comfort you, don’t go pushing us away.”  

“No matter how hard I try it seems impossible to shake you two off.” Athos allowed fondly.

“Then maybe it’s time you stopped trying.” Porthos suggested.

“Duly noted.” Athos acknowledged.

The journey was something best forgotten. Driving the cart Porthos did his best to go slowly and avoid the ruts and potholes in the road. In the back Aramis braced Athos’ battered body as best he could, but he went stark white at the first jolt and a sickly green at the second. By the time they arrived at the small, one story house, in the village that Treville was using as a base he had mercifully passed out.

“Here, I’ll take ‘im,” Porthos appeared at the foot of the cart. “You see to the doors and stuff.”

As Aramis pushed opened the front door, he found, to his relief, that Treville was waiting.

“Bring him in here. There’s food when you’re ready for it. I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed.”

“Thank you, Minister.”

“Is there a blanket or something?” Porthos asked. “No sense in messing up the bed before he’s clean.”

“Here,” Aramis found one at the end of the bed, hastily cleared the plain wooden table of the maps and plans which littered it, and covered it with the blanket. “Lay him down here.”

As Porthos carefully laid Athos down, Aramis looked around. To say that the room was basic would have been a kindness. Rough floorboards were covered only with a small rag rug. The window frame was warped, letting in a noticeable draught. A simple wooden bedstead with thin blankets instead of a quilt stood in the far corner of the room, a wooden crib, lovingly decorated with some inexpert carving standing sentry at the side. On one side a bare wooden rail served as a wardrobe, some of the possessions of the former occupations left behind in their haste.  A row of shelves held a few cooking pots, wooden plates, cups, and other odds and ends.

But the small fireplace held a roaring blaze, and there was a whole forest full of wood to feed it and, best of all, standing in front of it was a large wooden wash tub, from which steam rose gently, a piece of lavender soap set close buy.

As Aramis found an old scarf off the rail to plug the worst of the draught from the window, he took a moment to say a short prayer for the people whose home this was. They might be poor but everything was clean and neatly mended, showing real pride in their humble domicile. So many families were being displaced, fleeing in advance of the coming war. And it was only going to get worse. He hoped this family would get the chance to return home one day.

“Best see what we’re facing, huh?” Porthos’ words cut into his thoughts.

“Yes.” Aramis roused himself.

Finding strength in each other, they first removed Athos' shirt. His wrists were two dark bracelets of deep bruises, the flesh cut and swollen where the edges of manacles had dug into his flesh. There were numerous cuts of varying severity and stages of healing. His torso was mottled with bruises, signs of casual violence inflicted by fist or boot, and at least two of his ribs were cracked.

“He fought 'em.” Porthos noted proudly, looking up at Aramis across the table he noted he had gone completely still. “Mis?”

“I will kill him,” Aramis vowed, with a dark intensity that Porthos had rarely heard. “If my path ever crosses with Ortiz’, I will stab him in the back like the scum he is, then slice open his gut and watch him die slowly and in agony for what he has done.”

Leaning in Porthos saw what had caused his ire. Dark bruises, in the shape of hand prints, evidence of violent hands pushing and pulling, wrenching the shoulder out of joint, not just once but several times.

“Bastards targeted his sword arm.” He sighed.

Using, gentle, careful, fingers Aramis cautiously probed the swollen shoulder, frowning intently as he mapped out the full extent of the damage.

“They tried to put it back in but the swelling is such that the bone is still slightly out of place,” Aramis observed. “That could account for his continued lack of feeling.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Perhaps,” Aramis felt carefully around the joint. “Can you hold him steady?”

Pulling back on Athos’ arm he turned it slightly until he felt the joint give with a wet slicking sound, rather than the usual sharp pop. He hoped it was enough, although they would not know for sure until the swelling started to go down.

“Alright then,” Porthos huffed out a breath of air. “Let’s see to the rest of ‘im.”

D’Artagnan’s sword cut on his left forearm, which Aramis had so lovely stitched and tended, was now a gaping wound, growing a little pink around the edges.

“Well, they’ve unwittingly helped things along,” Aramis tried to be positive.  “The continuous flow of blood from all their poking and prodding has actually flushed it out. And tearing my stitches has allowed any build up of infection to drain away. I’ll rise it out thoroughly with brandy and leave it open to the elements for now. The air will help to dry it out and then I’ll re-stitch it.”

They worked quietly on. Removing his trousers revealed more cuts and bruises, standing out starkly across his pale flesh. Although, much worst was when they washed away the mud encrusting his feet to find the thin skin of his soles was marred with numerous, vicious, welts, inflicted with deliberate cruelty by a switch.

“D’Artagnan weren’t wrong,” Porthos said darkly. “They meant for ‘im fall flat on his face and die out there.”

“He’s still not out of the woods,” Aramis spoke frankly, even as he carefully finished swabbing the raw cuts. “His strength has been sorely taxed. He needs rest, warmth and good food. Not a hard, ride back to Paris with winter coming on.”

“Alright then,” Porthos leant heavily on his arms for a moment as he absorbed that. “Bath first then, with some of those herbs of yours, yeah? They always perk people up.”

They had a tricky moment when Athos came round as they were trying to put him in the tub and he thought the Spanish were trying to drown him. But between them they got him bathed, wrapped in a blanket, and settled in a chair by the fire where his wounds were anointed with ointment and carefully wrapped in bandages.

Finally, Porthos fetched Athos’ own nightshirt, carefully stowed in his saddlebags, against his brother’s safe return.

“There now, all ready for bed,” He smiled, as he smoothed the soft, familiar cloth, smelling of home, across his brother’s shoulders as Athos sat slumped slightly in the chair by the fire, too weary to even attempt his usual upright bearing, his features lined with pain and exhaustion.

"Alright,” Gently hauling the man to his feet Aramis pulled him in close so that Athos was resting against his chest, before wrapping his arms tightly around him. Even with Aramis’ support Athos legs immediately began to tremble with the sheer effort of simply keeping him upright. Aramis just held him closer. “Time for you to rest.”

Clearly beyond exhausted Athos’ arms simply hung limply at his sides but he dropped his head onto Aramis’ shoulder in such a gesture of trust that Porthos could scarcely swallow around the lump in is throat.

“Here, let me take ‘im.” Porthos offered. “You see to the bed.”

The hand off was made so smoothly that Athos seemed oblivious, he simply leant more heavily into Porthos’ shoulder, implicitly trusting both of these men equally to keep him safe.

As Aramis pulled back the bedclothes he made a mental note to thank Treville as he removed the copper warming pan, Porthos carefully sat Athos on the edge of the bed, lifting up his calves and turning him around so he might lay back on the pillows, before tucking the blankets securely around him.

“There now, all comfy,” He said approvingly. “You feel up to eating something?

“Is there any wine?” Athos asked hopefully.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward ..

A sharp knock at the door had Athos’ eyes instantly widening with a sudden, raw, panic.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Porthos soothed. “It’ll just be Treville or d’Artagnan.”

“My apologies.” Athos dropped his gaze.  

“Not your fault,” Porthos said at once, he put a hand under Athos’ chin and lifted it up to look his brother in the eye. “Torture leaves a mark on a man’s mind as well as on his body,” he counselled, as one large thumb rubbed along Athos’ jaw line. “It’s gonna take you a little while to come back to yourself is all. Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”

He waited until Athos inclined his head in acceptance.

“Good,” Porthos patted his cheek fondly. “Because you have nothing to prove here, brother.”

It turned out the new arrivals were both d’Artagnan and Treville. The Gascon bearing a large bowl, which he set on the table, followed by Treville carrying a small burlap sack from which he unpacked some spoons, cups and bowls, a loaf of dry bread and two bottles of a decent red.

“How is he?” d’Artagnan worried.

“Time will tell,” Aramis gave a non-committal shrug. “Is that food?”

“It’s not much I’m afraid,” Treville apologised, as he lifted the lid off the bowl of thin stew. “This cold has sent any decent game to ground, anything worth foraging is buried beneath the snow and it’s not like the locals are exactly friendly. Their loyalties around here tend more towards Spain than France.”

“Still, this loaf’s no more than two days old, it’ll be right tasty dipped in the stew,” Porthos tried to be positive, they wouldn’t even have that if Aramis wasn’t fluent in Spanish. “And the wine’s a good French vintage.”

“It’s the last of our stores,” Trevillle’s brow creased with worry. “And now we have four times as many men in the company to feed and water. A single man buying enough bread for twenty or more is going to attract suspicion.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Aramis advised, as he broke off a portion of the loaf, carefully crumbling it into a bowl of the stew, so that it soaked up the gravy. He placed a spoon between his teeth and used his other hand to pick up a cup of wine. He carried both over to Athos, whose eyelids were already beginning to droop. Setting the wine down on the floor he shook Athos' shoulder gently, waiting until the man sat up, looking around bleary eyed before he offered him a spoon.

“Eat what you can.” He spoke kindly.

“Oh,  no, you don’t,” Across the room Porthos plucked both spoon and bowl out of d’Artagnan’s eager hands and put them out of reach, letting the younger man’s wounded look simply roll off him, as he briskly began to help the lad out of his doublet. “Bath first, _then_ food. Lord knows, you stink to high heaven. Don’t worry, we’ll save you your share.”

“Did they feed you at all?” Treville frowned, from where he was now leaning against the wall, nursing a mug of wine.

“Not much,” d’Artagnan replied, his voice slightly muffled as Porthos tugged his shirt over his head. “Athos had the worst of it. Most of the time he was with Ortiz. I don’t think he’s had more than a round or two of bread since we were taken.”

Boots, stocking and trousers swiftly followed until d’Artagnan was standing in just his braies.

“That’s a right nasty bruise,” Porthos scowled at him. “You kept that quiet.”

“I honestly forgot,” d’Artagnan pulled up his skin a little so he could peer at his side. “It was during the ambush. A sword pommel I think. But it _is_ just a bruise. My ribs aren’t tender and my breathing is perfectly normal.”

“So, you do listen to Aramis occasionally,” Porthos approved. He picked up a pot of salve off the table, checked it was still half full and passed it over. “Make use of the hot water before it gets cold. Then rub some of that in. I’ve already put your nightshirt to warm by the fire. Then you can eat your fill.”

D’Artagnan ducked gratefully behind the screen, shucking off his braies and sinking with a blissful sigh into the warm water, taking a moment to stretch out, before scooping up a handful of soap and setting to scrubbing off the stench of captivity. The towel was a little thin and scratchy, but he made do. Slipping happily into the toasty warm nightdress he emerged to find Porthos setting out a bowl of the watery stew, a hunk of dry bread and a large mug of wine. He eagerly drew up a chair and set to, quickly filling his mouth with both bread and stew.

Across the room Aramis was talking quietly about everything and nothing as Athos slowly made his way through his own meal. He counted each mouthful as something of a victory. After a few minutes he noticed the thin lines of pain etched around his eyes growing deeper and the realised he was cradling his right arm close to his chest.

“I take it your arm isn’t numb anymore.” He observed dryly.

“No,” Athos acknowledged ruefully. “Believe me I am grateful for your care, but at present it is something of a mixed blessing.”

“The bone wasn’t quite in the joint, now I’ve corrected that, things should improve as the swelling goes down. In the meantime ..,” He placed a warm hand between Athos’ shoulder blades, before hopping up.

Athos only had a moment to miss that gentle contact and wonder at the rustling and clanking from the direction of the rail behind him before Aramis was back, with a long woollen stocking in one hand and a dark blue shawl in the other. Casting a warm smile in Athos’ direction he looped the stocking around his neck and fashioned it into an impromptu sling, slipping his wrist through the loop. Then he took the shawl and wrapped it firmly around Athos’ chest immobilizing the limb so it would have a chance to heal without being jostled.

“Better?”

He knew it was. He hadn’t missed the way Athos had relaxed the moment he no longer had to support the arm.

“Much, thank you.”

Aramis sank back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair as he sighed out some of his tension and worry from the last few days.

“Aramis?”

He looked up to see that Athos had stopped eating and was regarding him with a worried frown. Aramis knew better than to lie.

“Porthos and I have been quite besides ourselves not knowing what had become of you and d’Artagnan,” He admitted with a wan smile. “He was quite off his food.”

“If it had been in my power, I would not have left you without word.” Athos assured him. “But time was of the essence and you were several leagues in quite the wrong direction," He paused, stirring the stew without much interest. "When I thought I might die by Ortiz's hand one of my few regrets that I did not have the opportunity to take my leave of you both.”

“In the circumstances, you are forgiven,” Rolling his head around to look his brother in the eye he grinned. “But next time, leave us a note, hmm?”

“I didn’t actually think of that.” Athos looked a little chagrined.

“Here,” Aware that his brother’s strength was waning, Aramis picked up the spoon and loaded it up with one of the sparse chunks of meat. “Try and eat a little more. You need to build up your strength.”

“You are not my servant, Aramis.” Athos said stiffly.

Aramis knew not to take it personally. Ortiz had stripped away every speck of Athos’ dignity and control. No wonder he was reluctant to show the least sign of weakness. Even to his brothers. Fortunately, he had long since learnt how to scale those seemingly impenetrable walls.

“Will you force me to remind you of Dinard?” Aramis rolled his eyes in fake outrage. “Was I not completely unmanned the first time?”

The previous year when Treville had sent the two of them on a mission to the coastal town. Aramis had been laid low with stomach cramps. Athos had sat uncomplaining by his bedside for hours on end patiently mopping his brow and wiping his arse with an equally gentle hand.

Athos’ shoulders relaxed at the reminder and he offered his brother a tentative smile.

“I do believe I could manage another mouthful or two.”  

When Athos finally sank back into the thin pillows, Aramis hoped he might finally drop off. But no sooner had he seemed to relax into sleep then Athos became agitated, his eyes jerking open, darting anxiously around the room, making a sharp sound of distress, as he fought against the heavy blankets. 

“Calm yourself, Athos,” Aramis caught a flailing hand and squeezed it tight. With his other hand he smoothed a sweat soaked curl back from a brow that was a little too warm for his liking. “It’s alright, we’re all here, you’re safe now.”

“D’Artagnan.” Athos was not to be placated. “They have d’Artagnan.”

“I’m coming.”

Shovelling down a last mouthful of stew d’Artagnan swiftly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. As he crossed towards the bed, Aramis flipped back the blankets, so that the Gascon could slip in beside Athos.

“There, see now?” Aramis said soothingly. “D’Artagnan’s right here. And Porthos and I will be close by.”

Some of what Treville now recognised as _worry_ eased as Athos wrapped his good arm around d’Artagnan and pulled him into his side. The lad went easily, tucking his foot over Athos’ calf and wrapping his arm around his chest. But Athos still tossed his head, his hand tightening on Aramis’, clearly unwilling to let go.

Treville considered. The bed was quite large enough and the small room was easily dependable, not to mention all of his men were worn thin with exhaustion and worry.

“Get some rest,” He ordered. “All of you. I’ll keep watch.”

Porthos didn’t need telling twice. In less than a minute he had shucked off his weapons and doublet, hopping from foot to foot as he tugged off his boots and stockings, unceremoniously shoving down his breeches until he was down to shirt and braies, before crawling gratefully under the covers. Only Aramis hesitated, visibly worried about his patient.

“Right now, he’s just exhausted,” Treville reminded him gently. “And he’ll sleep better with all his brothers beside him.”

Even so he was unsurprised when Aramis settled on the side nearest the door, his pistol close at hand even as he rested, one arm reaching across to rest atop Athos’ head. D’Artagnan was between them, sprawled half on the mattress and half across Athos, his head pillowed on Athos’ chest. Porthos was on the other side of Athos, one large arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close so he did not jar his injured arm in his sleep.

Pouring out the last of the wine, Treville settled into a chair to watch and worry. Seeing all four of his Inseparables together was something of a balm to his battered soul. But they were not out of the woods yet.

Not by a long way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos' promise to leave the others 'a note' in future is absolutely prompted by that image posted by Jessica Pope. If you have seen it you'll know the one I mean.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis looked across at the figure in the bed. He was as pale as the sheets on which he lay. His cheeks were hollow, with circles dark as bruises prominent under each eye. He was far too thin. He was badly injured and those wounds, his feet, his sword arm for the love of God, needed rest and care. Not a hard, three day journey back to France across a freezing landscape on cold, meagre, rations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a power cut here last night so I had some technical problems uploading this one - even after I thought I fixed it - so I hope this works OK.

**Musketeer Camp. 3 days from the French Border. Dawn.**

The next morning the sun crept sluggishly over the horizon. Its light too low and dull to instil much cheer into the company of men. Food was noticeably scare but what rations they had were shared. Small treats of dried apple, cured ham, or sharp, hard, cheese, appeared out of saddle bags and pockets eeking out dry biscuits and the hard heels of loaves.

To everyone’s surprise Aramis produced a carefully hoarded jar of pears, poached in soft red wine and flavoured with sharp cloves. At Porthos’ raised brow he had the grace to look somewhat abashed at the expensive luxury.

“They were a gift from a grateful admirer. I’d been saving them for a special occasion. I rather felt this qualified.”

Carefully setting aside two generous portions for Athos and d’Artagnan who, exhausted beyond measure, slept on, curled around each other like two puppies in a litter, the others considered their present position over breakfast.

“Ortiz' terms did not extend to safe passage back to France," Treville pointed out. "If we now march an entire company of musketeers through Spanish territory it will be seen as an act of war. France isn’t yet ready to fight. We need time to build up men and arms.”

“We can’t stay here," Porthos pointed out. "These people look to Spain."

“And this village is too open to be easily defended," Aramis agreed. "Even if we could stay, we’re low on munitions and supplies. If we’re besieged, we’ll all die long before any help could come from Paris.”

"So, we're agreed we need to get the men home," Treville found himself desperately wishing for Athos’ input. The man was a font of tactical knowledge. "Any suggestions?"

“Why not split up into smaller groups?” Porthos offered. “Four or five men have a better chance of passing through the Spanish patrols un-noticed. There’s enough snow on the ground that they won’t lack for water and as long as they make good time, a few days without much food won’t kill ‘em.”

We’d need to move fast and avoid detection,” Trevillle warned. “That would mean no fires and no contact with the local population.”

“Thanks to Athos, most of the men are in pretty good shape,” Aramis ran a hand through his hair. “George’s head wound will need watching, but he’s lucid enough and now Gerard’s arm has been splinted he’ll be able to ride as long as he keeps it in the sling.”

“And Athos?” Treville challenged.

Aramis looked across at the figure in the bed. He was as pale as the sheets on which he lay. His cheeks were hollow, with circles dark as bruises prominent under each eye. He was far too thin. He was badly injured and those wounds, his feet, his _sword arm_ for the love of God, needed rest and care. Not a hard, three day journey back to France across a freezing landscape on cold, meagre, rations.

“What choice do we have?”

Between them they dressed Athos as warmly as possible for the journey ahead. Treville donated one of his singlets. Aramis had packed the man’s own shirt, braies and spare breeches and no-one was surprised when the expensive, fur lined, kid leather gloves which had cost him a month’s stipend, found their way onto Athos’ hands. D’Artagnan sacrificed his warm, woollen, cloak, taking a stiff, leather one from the rail of clothes for himself. Porthos gave up his blue quilted doublet and his thick, knitted, stockings, his being the only ones large enough to fit over Athos’ bandaged feet. The rail of abandoned clothes provided a pair of well patched boots and an ugly, but warm, felted hat.

“We should leave something in return.” D’Artagnan insisted.

“Anyone with any fashion sense would pay us to be rid of such monstrosities,” Aramis scoffed.

Nonetheless, d’Artagnan noted with approval that he did as suggested, leaving a generous pouch of coins hidden between the items hanging on the rail, where it would be missed by any casual observer. Even a stiff leather cloak, patched boots and an ugly hat were valuable commodities for people who lived as simply as this family.

“He’ll look more like a scarecrow than a Musketeer in that thing,” Porthos looked un-happily at the hat. His sense of style offended by its very existence.

“This is Athos,” Aramias reminded him. “He’ll only care that he is dressed and warm. The lack of sartorial elegance will quite pass him by.”

“I don’t know,” Porthos shook his head doubtfully. “He’s always been right particular about his head gear.”

Sure enough, Athos regarded the unfortunate hat with the best look of withering disdain he could muster. It wasn’t up to his usual standards, but it was more than sufficient to get his point across.

“Am I to pass in disguise as someone who has lost all reason?” He enquired coldly.

“You need a hat,” Aramis insisted, obviously trying to hold onto his patience. “It’s cold out and your body loses a great deal of heat from it’s extremities.”

“D’Artagnan isn’t wearing a hat.”

“ _D’Artagnan_ hasn’t just endured three days of interrogation courtesy of our Spanish friends, where he was starved, beaten and lost a not insignificant amount of blood,” Aramis retorted, his temper rising.” I am quite sure I have mentioned to you on numerous previous occasions how blood loss weakens a body and makes it harder for it to endure the cold.”     

“I would rather die than be seen in this.” Athos said loftily.

It was, Treville imagined, meant at least partly in jest. Although, Athos could be stubborn about the strangest things. It could not have been an easy thing for him to be so utterly helpless in the face of Ortiz’s sadistic cruelty. Perhaps his intransigence about the hat was simply an attempt to reclaim some of his sense of self.

Aramis however, was coldly furious.

“As you wish,” He declared, his voice tight, as he swept his own beloved headgear off his head and plonked it on top of Athos’ curls, putting the hideous felt monstrosity on his own head with a belligerent scowl that promised retribution to any who dared mock him. “Have my hat, I’ll wear this!”

And then he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Oh you’ve upset ‘im right and proper.” Porthos observed.

“Was that really necessary?” d’Artagnan wondered. “He’s just worried about you.”

“I will apologise,” Athos said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the door through which Aramis had left. “I had not realised that matters were so grave. I would not have continued if I had understood the burden he is carrying.”

“Athos,” Porthos waited until he had caught and held Athos’ gaze. “It will be alright. You know that, yeah?”

“Of course.” Athos didn’t sound convinced.

“Alright, I’m obviously missing something.” d’Artagnan pouted.

 When no response was immediately forthcoming he scowled belligerently.

“What _exactly_ am I missing?”

“What you just saw?” Porthos said bluntly. “Is Aramis worrying himself sick that Athos won’t survive the journey back to Paris."

“Won’t survive ..?” d’Artagnan paled.

“He takes too much on himself,” Athos protested. “Does he think I don’t know that he will do everything in his power? The rest lies in God’s hands.”

“He knows that. He just don’t like it,” Porthos sighed. “I’d best go after him.”

“It’ll go quicker with two of us?” d’Artagnan offered.

In truth d’Artagnan was about to walk past the tiny scullery in the outbuildings behind the house, when he caught a glimpse of the tip of a boot. Ducking his head into the sharp chill of the room he discovered Aramis sitting on a bench with his head bowed. When he saw the shaking shoulders he initially thought the musketeer was simply cold. It was only when he saw the drops of water gathering around his feet that he realized Aramis was quietly sobbing.

“Oh, Aramis.”

His stomach clenched to see his friend so utterly distraught. Swiftly closing the distance between them he sank down on to the bench beside him and put his arms around him, wanting to provide whatever comfort he could. He realized with a start of dismay that the dark stains under Aramis’ usually immaculate nails were dried blood.

Athos’ blood.

“I’m very much afraid that,” Aramis’ breath hitched. “Fixing this is beyond my power.”

“Perhaps,” D’Artagnan acknowledged quietly. “But it is not beyond God’s power and, for someone who professes to have left off religion, Athos is a far more deserving man than many priests.”

Aramis huffed out a watery sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Heathen.” He scoffed fondly. “Such talk borders on sacrilege.”

“I have faith in the important things in life.” d’Artagnan reminded him.

“Says a man who believes Armanac to be the finest of beverages,” Aramis used the crook of his elbow to dash away his tears. “When everyone knows God intended brandy to be made from plums. Grapes are meant for wine.”

“When Athos is safely returned to France we can toast his health in Calvados for all I care,” D’Artagnan nudged him fondly. “We are, all of us, stronger together. Keep faith in that.”

“Everything all right in here?” Porthos hovered in the doorway. “Only Treville wants us to get moving.”

The Minister had divided the men into groups of four or five. There was no question that the inseparables would remain together. Unable to damp down on his own worry for Athos he had decided he would also accompany them. After some negotiation it was decreed that Athos would ride with Porthos, whose mount was strong enough to carry both men without any loss of speed. D’Artagnan would ride alone, leading Roger and Treville and Aramis would bring up front and rear.

“You quite sure you’re fit to ride?” Porthos pinned the Gascon with a look as they worked together to tack up the horses.

“I’m fine.” d’Artagnan insisted.

“You’re allowed not to be, you know that right?,” Porthos took a moment to encourage Aramis’ temperamental stallion to actually take the bit. “We ain’t forgot that you were held prisoner too. We’ve all been there. Sometimes, it’s almost easier being the one tortured than waiting for the others to be returned.”

“The waiting was hard,” D’Artagnan admitted, looking away, his eyes haunted. “I just felt so dammed helpless. Even though I knew Athos would have my hide if did something rash.”

“Probably punch you so hard you’d beg him to kick you.” Porthos threw over his shoulder as he moved around the horse.

“That does sound like him.” d’Artagnan laughed, as he settled Zad’s saddle in place.

To his utter mortification he felt the laugh catch in his throat and his composure begin to falter as the strain of the last few days made itself known. The thought of Athos being constantly beaten and tortured, whilst he was unable to do anything had been almost more than he could bear. He took refuge in burying his head under the saddle flap, tightening the girth as he tried to blink back his tears.

“D’Artagnan?” Porthos worried.

“They hurt him, Porthos,” d’Artagnan found it easier to speak with the bulk of the horses between them, so he did not have to look his brother in the eyes. “They really hurt him and there was nothing I could do. When I heard him scream I truly thought Ortiz had killed him .. ”

They both knew what it must have taken to shatter Athos’ stoic façade.

“Ssh, I know,” Porthos was at his side before the tears could fall. He pulled him in tightly, letting d’Artagnan bury his face in his jacket. A haven of safety and strength. “I was sick with worry for the both of you. But we have him back now and we have you and the sooner we all get back to Paris the better if you ask me.”

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan went to straighten up as he tried to swallow back his tears. “You’re right, we should get moving.”

“Not what I meant and you know it,” Porthos tightened his grip. “You take all the time you need.”

They stood there until all d’Artagnan’s tears were spent. Then Porthos used his kerchief to wipe off his face, before surprising the younger man by dropping a rough kiss on his brow.

“Feel better?”

“Yes, actually.” d’Artagnan realised.

“Good,” Porthos squeezed his shoulder firmly. “You’ll get there. Give it time, yeah?”

If the others noticed his high colour and red rimmed eyes on their return they didn’t comment. But each of them offered their support in their own way. Aramis buttoned him into the leather cloak with tender care, Porthos saw to the loading of all the packs by himself. Treville quietly slipped him the last of the bread and a few of the crisp, sharp, apples, Robert had discovered stored against the coming winter in an abandoned barn, and Athos chose to lean on him, as they made their way out to the horses, his arm wrapped a little more firmly around d’Artagnan’s shoulders than it truly needed to be.

“I see you made up with Aramis.” D’Artagnan smirked.

Athos huffed a half-laugh from under the felt monstrosity, currently firmly perched atop his head. Aramis’ own headgear having been returned to its rightful owner.

“However could you tell?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Aramis approached, medical satchel in hand and a purposeful look on his face, Athos had already decided on his only course of action.
> 
> “It will be best for all if you just leave me here.” He declared.

**The Journey – Day One**

They quickly realised Athos’ feet were too damaged for him to use the stirrup to mount. But by placing his knee in Aramis’                 cupped hands he had enough of a leg up for Porthos to settle him in front of him, although even that slight movement caused him to pale.

“S’alright, I have you.” Porthos soothed.

He pulled Athos back, so that he was nestled against his chest, his arms bracing him on either side. That way Athos felt as secure as if he was sitting in an arm chair. As they moved out, Porthos’ body heat soaked into his back, a barrier against the cold. And the thought of Treville’s singlet close to his skin, d’Artagnan’s cloak around his shoulders, Aramis’ expensive fur gloves on his hands and Porthos’ thick knitted socks on his feet warmed his heart.

However, as the day progressed Athos didn’t miss how keenly Aramis felt the cold, trying to pull his head into his neck and his arms and legs close to his body like a turtle, in an attempt to keep warm. He could actually hear d’Artagnan’s stomach rumbling loudly as he chewed on a piece of licorice root from Aramis’ medical supplies. He felt the way Porthos shifted restlessly behind him, as the shoulder, wounded when they were escorting Bonnaire, grew increasingly stiff in the freezing weather. And given how terse Treville became as the day progressed the injury inflicted by LaBarge was plaguing him too.

And every time he coughed, which admittedly was often, their faces all pinched with ever increasing worry.

“Athos?” Porthos nudged him. “Can you get down?”

Blinking Athos realised that they had come to a halt and Treville and Aramis were waiting to help him dismount as d’Artagnan patiently held their mount’s head.

Despite his friend’s efforts to be careful Athos could not contain his cry of agony, as he was helped down off the horse. During the journey the cold had done a good job of numbing his hurts, but movement brought them all flaring back to life. For several moments he was so sick and disorientated that he knew nothing further until he found himself propped up against a tree, seated on a thick felt horse blanket, still warm from their mounts, someone’s blue woolen cloak tucked neatly around him. 

“I still don’t see why we can’t make just a small fire?” d’Artagnan was arguing. “Something to make him a little broth? If I set it in that hollow it’ll never be seen from the road.”

“Even the smallest of fires creates smoke,” Treville demurred. “The danger of discovery is too great.”

“Like everyone for miles around here hasn’t just heard him yell like a banshee,” Porthos grumbled. “If there was anyone around these parts that would’ve brought ‘em running.”

By the time Aramis approached, medical satchel in hand and a purposeful look on his face, Athos had already decided on his only course of action.

“It will be best for all if you just leave me here.” He declared.

Aramis’ hands did not even pause in unbuckling his bag and rummaging around for whatever he was looking for.

“We only just got you back. We shall not let you go so easily.”

“I am slowing you down and putting everyone’s lives at risk.” They had only covered half the ground they would have done if they had not had to accommodate his injuries. With an effort Athos kept his tone steady, although he could not look Aramis in the eye as he continued. “Chances are these wounds will likely do for me anyway. Better that the four of you should live to fight another day.”

“Better for who?” Aramis sat back on his heels, as he pinned his brother with a look. “Not for us. You _know_ the pain of losing a brother. Would you really wish that on Porthos and I? On _d’Artagnan_?”       

“So, instead we all die?” Athos counted sharply. “What does that achieve?”

“I for one have no intention of dying out here, I would not give Ortiz the satisfaction,” Aramis said with conviction. “Granted, it’s cold and we’re hungry but in a couple of days we shall be back in France. You do us a disservice if you think we cannot endure a little discomfort for your sake.”

Clearly considering the matter closed he went back to rummaging in his bag. 

“You shouldn’t have to.” Came Athos’ unhappy murmur.

Aramis hand finally closed around the small flask he had been searching for. Pulling it out he settled back beside Athos, close enough that his shoulder was a warm press against Athos’ arm. He pulled out the cork and passed it over. Suspecting some foul herbal brew that was meant to do him good Athos sniffed warily, only to have his features smooth out in surprise.

“Brandy?”

“Purely medicinal,” Aramis’ eyes twinkled. “Try not to enjoy it.”

Athos’ lips curled into a smile, more than any poltices or potions these men were a balm to his wounds. He took a long drink, relishing the smooth, rich, taste, and the way it’s warmth settled on his sore chest.

“We aren’t doing this because we have to, mon frère, we’re doing it because we love you,” Aramis said quietly. Although Athos had made great strides in accepting his brothers’ care he still tended to retreat into himself whenever he felt especially vulnerable. “Why is it so hard for you to learn that lesson?”

“Because everyone always loves the Comte,” Athos said with raw honesty. “He holds his peoples’ lives in his hands, so he is flattered and fawned over with empty words, even if in their hearts they think him a monster. How can such a man ever truly know his own worth?”

“Oh Athos,” Aramis cupped his hand behind Athos’ neck and drew his head down to rest on his shoulder, as he stroked his hair. “You have proved your worth a thousand times, as a King’s Musketeer and your brothers love you fiercely for it.”

“Thomas did not love me,” Athos said very quietly. “How could he, if he sought to gratify his own appetites with the woman he knew I loved?”

Aramis stilled in surprise. Athos so rarely spoke of Thomas and when he did it had always been in connection with his own failings, never his sibling’s. As painful as such a thing was Aramis could not help but feel this was a sign of progress. Turning his head slightly, he kissed Athos gently on the cheek.

“I confess, my friend, I have no answer to that,” He said. “The good Lord knows my own guilt at placing you in harm’s way because of a moment of weakness. I could not countenance causing you such deliberate hurt.”

“I rather think Thomas did not love anyone half as much as he loved himself,” Athos concluded sadly. “I was such a young man when my father died. I had barely attained my majority. Too young really for such responsibility. Rather than helping me to shoulder the burden, Thomas was a constant source of worry. I was forever having to smooth over his escapades or settle his gambling debts.”

“That sounds painfully familiar.” Aramis grimaced.

“It is nothing alike. You have generally been able to handle your own affairs and Porthos usually wins,” Athos shook his head. “Any assistance I have ever rendered either of you has been repaid many times over. Thomas was my brother and I loved him but he was not someone I could rely on.”

“I am sorry for that,” Aramis had grown up with his sisters and a whole tribe of cousins. There was always someone to take his side, soothe his hurts, or just be a listening ear. “It must have been lonely for you.”

“I suppose it was,” Athos looked faintly surprised by the realization. “At the time I knew no different.”

“Well now you have a family who love you,” Aramis reminded him. “Porthos, d’Artagnan and I, Treville and Constance, we would all weep for your loss. And what of young Pierre who daily exerts himself so his footwork will be worthy of your praise, or the widow Turin who would have been on the streets with three young children if you have not found her employment in the Garrison’s laundry? What would have become of young Alain the Blacksmith’s son after he was so badly burned if you had not paid to send him to school?”

“You do me too much credit.” Athos shook his head.

“If you say you merely did your duty, you’ll be drinking nothing but water between here and Paris.” Aramis warned.

“You would not be so cruel.” Athos said confidently.

“You have touched so many lives, mon frère, and done so much good in this world. Do not be in such a hurry to leave it.”

Once Athos was sufficiently mellow from the brandy, Aramis cleaned and tended his wounds, changing the soiled bandages for soft, clean, linen, as around them the others watered the horses, set saddles down to act as back rests, unfurled bed rolls and put together a meagre supper, of yellowing hard cheese and the last of the bread.

Athos made a valiant effort, but the food was well past its best and difficult to digest. He only managed a few mouthfuls.

“You should get some sleep while you can.” Aramis suggested. 

“Because sitting here with my eyes open is so much more taxing then sitting here with them shut?” Athos said with a hint of amusement.

“It is,” Aramis reached over with his thumb, to smooth over the furrows forming on Athos’ forehead. “When you are taxing your strength worrying about how the men are faring or whether the Spanish will attack. Not everything must be the Captain’s responsibility. Treville is here and your brothers wish for nothing more than to share your burdens, so that you might get well. Rest now and let us carry things for a while.”

When Athos meekly obeyed the sharpshooter had to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. Listening to the slight whistle of Athos’ breathing as he slept, Aramis wished that he could prepare a hot poultice to draw out the phlegm building on his lungs. Or at the very least find a decent blanket to keep out the cold.

Otherwise, he was very much afraid Athos would not survive this.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos dropped his gaze.
> 
> "Perhaps it would be best if I don't sleep." He admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am away from tomorrow for work and can't be sure when I can post again, so I'm going to move things on a bit ..

**The Journey - Day Two. Midday.**

“There’s really no food left?” Treville ran a hand through his hair.

“Not a scrap,” Porthos confirmed. “We gave Athos the last of the plums for breakfast and the end of the cheese for the rest of us.”

They had broken camp at dawn and ridden as hard and fast as they dared given Athos' increasing infirmity over difficult country. As the journey progressed Athos’ habitual pallor had become as bleached as the purest porcelain, apart from the two bright spots of fever in his cheeks. It had become ever more difficult to get him to respond to questions, or even take a few sips of water.

“We’re only a day and a half from the French border,” Treville sighed. “Make sure every container that will hold water is filled before we depart.”

“Minister,” Aramis stepped forward, his expression grave. “Water will be enough to keep the rest of us alive. We’ll be short tempered and hungry but we will survive. Athos will not. His wounds and growing fever are sapping all his strength. He needs warmth and nourishment now, or he is going to die.”

“It’s really that bad?” Treville worried.

“Frankly, yes.”

“I could see what I can scavenge,” d’Artagnan offered. “Even at this time of year there is food to be had from the land if you know where to look. And farms always have stores and outhouses where the odd thing here or there will never be missed.”

“There’s still the risk that you might be seen.” Treville countered.

“I’ll take my pauldron off and leave my muskets here, if anyone asks I’ll tell them I’m just a farmer’s son, struggling to help our hands feed their families and looking for new markets,” D’Artagnan shrugged. “Times are hard all over and Gascony does enough trade with Spain my presence shouldn’t raise any suspicions.”  

“And if anyone challenges you?” Treville demanded.

“Then I’ll talk their ears off about the milk yields until they are glad to see the back of me.”

“I could take a little trip to that town to the North,” Aramis suggested. “We need some supplies we can’t get from the land and I can blend in with the locals easily enough. So many people are being displaced by the war one new face in a town will pass un-noticed.”

“Alright, we’ll make camp here for now,” Treville allowed. He eyed d’Artagnan and Aramis who was regarding him with hopeful expressions. “Be back in two hours and _don_ _’_ _t_ make me regret this.”

“Of course not.” d’Artagnan’s almost feral smile was not the least bit reassuring.

“How much coin do you have?” Aramis asked Porthos quietly.

“Always keep some put by for emergencies, you know that. What do you need?”

“It won’t be cheap I’m afraid. Enough to buy a decent blanket and some more brandy,” Aramis considered. “A ham would be good, a pie of some sort, and some salt.”

“Righto,” Porthos handed over a full purse. “Use whatever you need.”

Whilst they were waiting for the others to return Treville took it upon himself to patrol their small camp, watering the horses, brushing the worst of the dust from the road from their furry winter coats, airing out the bedrolls over low lying branches, telling himself that he was worrying for nothing. Aramis and d’Artagnan could take care of themselves.

Although, they could also find trouble like no-one he had ever met.

On the far side of the clearing Porthos was sitting with his back braced against the remains of a hollow tree, trying to gain as much protection as possible from the biting cold. He had pulled Athos in his lap, their legs and feet tangled together so that no part of his injured brother touched the damp earth. Having slipped his arms out of his sleeves his jacket was acting like a cloak, keeping its warmth tucked around them both, as he held Athos close, trying to share as much body heat as possible.

One of his hands rested lightly over Athos’ heart.

Athos was deathly pale. His eyes little more than two bruises in his stark white face, his lips thin and lacking in colour. If it wasn't for the tender way Porthos was cradling him, his chin resting fondly on the dark curls and his lips constantly moving as he spoke softly Treville might think he was already dead.

Pausing to read the shapes of Porthos’ lips Treville realised with a start the musketeer wasn’t simply talking to Athos.

He was praying for him.

Aramis returned first, a good quarter hour before the deadline, with a bulging sack slung over his shoulder. No sooner had he placed it on the ground, then d’Aratagnan trotted up, his formally empty saddlebags packed full, and there was a smug grin on his face.

“After you,” Aramis gave a courtly bow.

D’Artagnan’s hoard included a pile of nuts, some rather wizened looking berries, over half a dozen eggs, a random mixture of hen and duck eggs plucked from various hedgerows, a small collection of apples taken from a large winter store, a single round cheese from a stack of dozens, a  three long fat sausage of smoked meat, taken from a forgotten corner in an abandoned smoke house, a water skin full of fresh, creamy milk procured from two different cows to avoid drawing attention to the pilfering and a piece of fresh honeycomb _very_ carefully extracted from a hollow tree.

Nothing that would be missed. Nothing to draw attention to their passing.

“Oh yeah, we can do something with all that,” Porthos beamed. He peered a little closer at the berries. “They aren’t poisonous or anything are they?”

“They’re fine,” d’Artagnan assured him. “Country boy, remember?”

"And you met no trouble?" Treville wanted to know.

"No, the first two places I came to had already been abandoned," d'Artagnan sighed. "And the few people I saw in the distance seemed keen to keep themselves to themselves. I suppose they’ve seen more than enough trouble.”

"And more to come, more's the pity," Porthos added. He was a solider. He would fight whenever he was asked. But he always felt sorry for the civilians whose lives were destroyed in the process.

Aramis had managed to purchase a fine cured ham and a large meat pie, packed with layers of chicken, pheasant, partridge and duck, encased in a thick, spiced, jelly, two bottles of fine brandy, a loaf of salt, and best of all, a still warm apple tart. On closer inspection the ‘sack’ he had been using was a thick soft, blanket, made of the finest wool.

“Apple tart,” d’Artagnan’s positively face lit up. “That's Athos’ favourite.”

It was entirely credit to the Gascon’s fine, upstanding, nature, that even in the face of his own all consuming hunger that his first thought was for his mentor.

Despite the ever present threat of Spanish patrols, it felt pleasant, almost festive, to be able to sit down and share such a bounteous meal.  

“Have a little more of the ham,” Aramis slid a second slice on Athos’ plate, pleased to see that the rich, nourishing, food had gone some way to revive him. “It’s really very good. I think they used rum to cure it.”

“And we’ve got something right special for dessert,” Porthos nodded happily at the apple tart.

“Did you hear any word in the town of the Spanish patrols?” Treville wondered.

“Only that there seem to be more and more of them as each day passes,” Aramis considered. “I didn’t like to ask too many questions.”

After supper Treville, d’Artagnan and Porthos collected armful after armful of twigs and bracken to provide something of a cushion against the cold, hard, ground. Once they had spread them out, Aramis covered them with the horse blankets, their thick felt being the best available protection against any sharp thorns. When Porthos tucked the new blanket around Athos, the Captain immediately recognized it’s quality as something far above what a Musketeer could usually afford.

“Porthos.” He chided.

“Hush. Aramis says you need the warmth to help your body heal. Things will knit faster and better if you aren’t using all your strength to keep warm and the pain will be more bearable if you aren’t tensed up against the cold all the time,” All the while he was carefully tucking the corners around Athos. “You might just be able to get some proper sleep.”

Athos dropped his gaze.

"Perhaps it would be best if I don't sleep." He admitted.

“You worried about nightmares?” Porthos sat back on his haunches, his brow furrowing in concern. After everything Ortiz had put Athos through he supposed they should have known to be watching for that.

“No, not that." Athos looked up, unusually hesitant, fear evident in his eyes.

“Athos, you _are_ going to wake up again, you hear me?” Porthos asserted roundly, horrified at the realisation that his brother was afraid that he might actually die in his sleep. “And I'll right here. I ain’t leaving you."

He shifted around so he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Athos.

"Here, lean against me.”

Without waiting for an answer he gently gathered Athos, blanket and all, into his arms, pulling him into his chest and wrapped both arms tightly around him. When he was content he was holding him as tight as could be, he hooked his chin over Athos’ shoulder, feeling the comforting scratch of his beard against his cheek.

"There now, that’s better, eh? You just rest easy. I'll keep a good watch. Wake you when it's time for breakfast.”

Athos said nothing, but he weakly patted Porthos hand in gratitude, before letting his hand fall back into his lap and his head rest weakly against Porthos’ chest. In moments his exhaustion overcame him and he slept, his mouth lolling gently open.

Leaving Porthos to keep watch and hope that God would not make a liar of him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins ..

**The Journey - Day Three. 2 hours past dawn.**

D’Artagnan was startled the next morning to wake to full daylight. Looking around the small camp he realized the others had already been up for some time, a couple of shirts, and a pair of braies, had been freshly laundered and were billowing on a makeshift line between two trees. A plate of sausage and cheese and a cup of milk had been set on a nearby rock, clearly intended for his breakfast. The spare muskets were all set out in a row, one partly disassembled with cloth and gun oil nearby, suggesting that someone had been cleaning them, but had been interrupted in the task.

The camp itself was deserted, apart from Aramis, who was diligently bent over a small bowl, biting his lip in concentration as he worked.

Having relieved himself and used the last of his water skin to rinse off his hands and face, d’Artagnan made short work of the food before picking the cup of milk and making his way over to his brother’s side.

“Why didn’t anyone wake me?”

“There was no need,” Aramis looked up briefly from his labours, where he was whipping some eggs with a fork. “Treville’s gone to scout ahead. There’s some rough terrain to the north, which we need to avoid, so he’s looking for an alternative route. We won’t move out until he returns.”

Turning back to his whisking he continued.

“We thought you could use the extra rest and don’t even try to tell me you didn’t need it. Being held captive is taxing on both body and mind.”

“I was mostly just cold and worried about Athos.” D’Artagnan allowed.

“As I said taxing,” Aramis went so far as to stop what he was doing raised an admonishing brow at him for downplaying the experience. “Athos calls me reckless, but he never hesitates to place himself in the firing line. You’ve seen those silvery pale burn scars on his back? Those happened the first time I was ever held hostage with him. I didn’t even know how much he had suffered until he had already negotiated my freedom.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan said, a little helpless. “I felt like I had let both you and Porthos down.”

“Believe me, Porthos and I have both been where you were,” Aramis assured him kindly. “I am quite sure Athos told you no blame would be attached to you for his injuries.”

“He did,” d’Artagnan gave a rueful shrug. “It didn’t really help.”

“No,” Aramis’ expression was soft with understanding. “That’s the trouble with love I think.”

Turning back to his task, Aramis stirred some of the honey he had carefully extracted from the waxy honeycomb into the beaten egg.

“What _are_ you doing?” d’Artagnan’s curiosity got the better of him.

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Aramis explained, as he laid down the fork and began stirring in some milk, adding a good measure of brandy, as well as some spices from his pack, before briskly whipping it to a froth. Pouring a little off into a cup he offered it to d’Artagnan. “Egg yolks are good for strength, honey gives energy and promotes healing, the milk is good for knitting bones and putting condition back on, brandy helps with the pain and the spices tempt the patient’s dull palette. It’s an excellent tonic for the elderly or infirm.”

“I wouldn’t go around calling Athos elderly or infirm,” d’Artagnan teased. “Not unless you are _looking_ for him to punch you.”

He took a drink, his brows shooting upwards in surprise as he savored the rich, warm flavours, the spices teasing his tongue, the honey making the liquid far more palatable than Aramis’ usual medicinal draughts, whilst the milk and egg settled comfortingly in his stomach.

“That’s delicious.” He said in a tone of wonder.

“You need not sound _quite_ so surprised.” Aramis was offended. 

“I know you always have our best interests at heart, but most of your tonics taste like poison,” d’Artagnan grinned, even as he drained the cup. “Where is Athos?”

“Porthos helped him down to the stream so he could soak his feet.”

D’Artagnan nodded at the sense in that. The fast flowing water would flush out Athos’ wounds and the cold would help to ease any swelling and numb the pain.

“Should I take him a cup?” d’Artagnan nodded at the bowl.

“Not right now,” Aramis shook his head. “He had a .. difficult night. Porthos was going to try to get him to sleep a little more.”

“Difficult?” d’Artagnan frowned. “Difficult how?”

“You know as well as I that Ortiz did not merely interrogate him, he tortured him, as much to debase the Captain of the King’s musketeers as to extract information,” Aramis sighed, as he began to wash the small pile of dishes in a bucket of cold water, deliberately avoiding the Gascon’s gaze. “Athos may try to bottle up his feelings, but the mind will have its release.”

“Nightmares,” D’Artagnan guessed with a sinking heart. “You should have woken me. I was the one with him, in that hell hole. I could have _helped._ ”

“Peace, d’Artagnan, you were as much a victim as of Ortiz as anyone and you needed rest. Athos would not thank us for neglecting your needs for his sake,” He looked up from his work with a tight grin. “Although, If you feel the need to be helpful those spare muskets still need cleaning?”

“I walked right into that, didn’t I?” d’Artagnan said ruefully.

“Just a bit.”

“I’ll take them down to the stream and do them there. Give Porthos a break.” D’Artagnan decided.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Aramis knew the younger man was eager to sit with Athos, but now really wasn’t the time. “All night Athos has startled at the slightest noise. If, God willing, Porthos has managed to get him back to sleep, there’s too great a risk of you disturbing him.”

“I’ll be quiet,” D’Artagnan promised, as he bent down and began to gather the muskets into the crook of his arm. “I just want to ...

“Must I make it an order?"

D’Artagnan froze, his eyes widening and his face flushing at the clear indication that he had overstepped. In general, Aramis and Porthos instructed or advised, they did not _order_ him. Even Athos’ commands were generally couched as a request. But once glance at Aramis’ expression showed that he was deadly serious. Very slowly the Gascon put the muskets back down and straightened up. A thin coil of dread forming in his stomach.

“There’s something wrong isn’t there?” He took an unsteady step forward. “That’s why you don’t want me to go down there. Something is badly wrong with Athos.”

Aramis sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. D’Artgnan belatedly realised how tired and drawn he looked, almost grey under his usual tan. And when he looked up at the heavens, as if for divine inspiration, his eyes were wet with tears.

“Athos is going to flay me alive,” He said to no-one in particular. He took a steadying breath before looking d’Artagnan in the eyes. “I suppose you will find out soon enough. We sincerely hoped it would not come to this. But things have taken a turn for the worst.”

As he tried to find the words to explain Aramis closed his eyes against the moment when he had gently peeled back the bandages on Athos’ left arm to reveal the red streaks which flared out down to his fingers and up in the direction of his shoulder.

_Towards his heart._

 “And you intended to keep this from me?” d’Artagnan’s youthful temper flared. “How _could_ you?” 

“Because _Athos_ wanted to protect you,” Aramis retorted hotly. “With everything he’s facing his first thought was for you. He didn’t want you blaming yourself should the worst happen.”

“The worst?” d’Artagnan felt his knees go weak. “You mean Athos could die?”

“Easy now, we don’t need two casualties,” Aramis caught him by the shoulders and pushed him down to sit on a nearby log. “God willing, there is still a chance to save him. We haven’t given up hope. But we are running out of time. We need to make preparations.”

“Then do it, whatever it is,” d’Artagnan demanded, terrified at the thought of losing his best friend. “Whatever are you waiting for?”

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. When he opened them his eyes were dark with pain. “Treville has already sent word ahead to the King’s surgeon. He’ll be waiting when we cross the border into France.”

“What? Surgeon?” d’Artagnan’s head came up sharply as he realized the implications of that. “Are you seriously telling me that you mean to amputate his arm? Dear God, Aramis, you _can’t_. You have to save it.”

And suddenly he was moving upwards and backwards, propelled with such force that, even through his leather doublet, the rough bark of the tree trunk bit sharply into his shoulders and the impact forced all the air from his lungs.

“Don’t you think I’ve _tried_. Do you think I _want_ this? Do you imagine I haven’t spent the last three days praying and crying and _agonizing_ over this?” Aramis’ expression, just inches from d’Artagnan’s face, was twisted with fury as he took the Gaston by the shoulders and shook him _hard_ for good measure. “Weren’t you listening to me? There is nothing else to be done. Without this, Athos will _die_ before we ever reach Paris.”

“You don’t mean that,” D’Artgnan protested, abruptly feeling all the fight go out of him, so that now Aramis’ grip and the support of the tree trunk behind him was the only thing holding him upright. He grasped his brother’s arm tight enough to leave bruises. “You’re the medic. There has to be something, _something_ you can do.”

“Aramis has already done everything he can to stem the infection.” Treville’s voice cut in.

Both men turned to see the Minister, his boots still splattered with mud from riding, crossing the clearing. Pressing his lips tight together, Aramis visibly gathered himself, gently tugged d’Artagnan’s jacket into place and patted his shoulder as he stepped back.

The Gascon eyed him warily.

Treville gave Aramis a small nod of approval, before fixing his attention on d’Artagnan.

“On the day Ortiz handed Athos over, Aramis flushed the wound out with water, rinsed it with brandy and left it open to the air to dry out. The next day he made a poultice of mustard and herbs to draw out the infection. When that didn’t work, he set leeches to eat out the putrid flesh, despite the danger that it might destroy muscle tone and leave the arm withered and weak. Then, in desperation, he packed the wound with salt in an attempt to cure it, causing Athos the un-told agonies they spared you last night. But it has all proved to be too little too late, the infection had already reached deep into Athos’ blood.”

“Losing his arm will destroy him.” D’Artagnan protested.

“Keeping it will kill him.” Aramis shot back.

“So, instead you would condemn him to living half a life?” D'Artagnan challenged.

His mind was haunted by memories of the old soldier who used to haunt the square in Lupiac, struggling to get around on his one good leg and dependent on alms for his very survival. The thought of Athos ending up like that ..  

“Athos is far more than his arm," Treville rebuked sternly. “As his brother, you do him a disservice to think otherwise. That man is a born leader, a fine soldier who can inspire others, even when all seems lost, he’s a brilliant tactician and thanks to his upbringing, despite his distaste for court politics, he is more skilled at diplomacy than anyone I have ever known.”

Aramis touched d’Artagnan lightly on the shoulder, causing the younger man to turn his head towards him.

“Think on what Athos has taught you. How he has guided all of us with his wisdom. Imagine what his tutelage might do for the King, for the future of France itself.”

If Aramis could not raise his son himself there was some comfort in thinking Athos might be able to teach Louis to be the type of father that he would wish him to be.

“Even if his arm cannot be saved,” Treville reclaimed both their attention. “I would still choose Athos as Captain of the Musketeers above all others. The men’s trust in him doesn’t lie just in his ability to wield a sword.”

“And when it comes to swordplay he has rarely ever needed to call on his left, unless he was injured,” Aramis reminded. “With practice he can learn to centre his balance and fight almost as well as before.”

“You’re both right, of course,” d’Artagnan scrubbed at his face, feeling tears burn hotly behind his eyes. “It’s just the shock of it.”

“I know,” Aramis drew him into his arms, hugging him tightly. D’Artagnan could feel his throat working hard against his shoulder as he struggled to contain his own emotions. “Athos is strong. He can get through this. But he’s going to need all our faith and love.”

“But it was just a scratch,” D’Artagnan choked out. “You said it was just a scratch."

“I know and it was,” Aramis affirmed, stroking his hair. “In the normal way of things, it would have healed, leaving nothing but a small scar, like that one Athos gifted you on your side. That that did not happen is entirely down to Ortiz. Athos will need your love and support more than ever now, wallowing in regrets will do no-one any good.”

“Has anyone told Athos that?” d’Artagnan raised his eyes, full of worry for his brother. “Because you know how he gets.”

“Porthos has it in hand.”

“Alright,” d’Artagnan pressed his lips together tightly and then raised his chin bravely. Watching Athos’ loose his arm would be one of the hardest things he had ever done. But he had a duty to help his brother. Summoning his resolve, he straightened up. “What do you need from me?”

“Treat him as normal. No guilt. Not _one_ ounce of pity. Give him your support, don’t hesitate to point out when he’s being an ass. Let him see, hourly if possible, just how much he is loved.”

“So,” Despite the way his soul was quaking, d’Artagnan managed a tremulous smile. “Same as always then.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos has it in hand ..

**Day Three. 2 and a half hours past dawn. Down by the stream.**

“I suppose it’s no good askin’ if you want to talk about it?” Porthos offered, as he sat on a nearby rock, playing a game of patience, as he kept watch.

Perched on the bank a short distance away, with his bare feet buried in the fast flowing stream, letting its cooling water tend to the welts on his feet, Athos favoured his brother with a baleful look, his painfully swollen left arm bound tightly across his chest.

“Fair enough,” Porthos said, matter of factly, as he dealt himself another card. “Just don’t go thinkin’ I don’t know what you’re brooding on. I’ve known you too long for any of that kind of nonsense. You’re thinking it would be easier all round if you didn’t survive the amputation.”

“Some might say so,” Athos said tonelessly. “Given the alternative.”

“Except it ain’t ever an easy thing to face down death. No matter how many times you might have courted it in battle,” Porthos said seriously. “I reckon there are things about this life you’d miss. A fine red wine with a sharp brie, a good book, a fast gallop on a decent  horse, small pleasures, but ones to find joy in."

Athos went very still.

“And then there’s us, of course,” Porthos continued relentlessly. “There’s still so much for d’Artagnan to learn. And now with war coming he’s going to need a steadying hand more than ever. He never heeds Aramis and I half as well as he listens to you.”

Athos’ good hand clenched into a fist.

“And Aramis, he acts like he’s doing fine but we both know he’s still all at sea over that business with Rochfort. I’m scared stiff this war with Spain is gonna force him to do something even more reckless than normal to prove his loyalty to the crown, ‘specially now that it’s his kid’s future he’s fighting for. Like being a spy behind enemy lines or some other such madness. Remember how he went off half-cocked over baby Henri, never even stopping to think we might lend a hand? I reckon this’ll be ten times worse. He’s gonna need careful watching and as Captain you’d best placed to keep a weather eye on ‘im.”

“You’d make the Regiment a laughing stock by having a cripple for its’ Captain?” Athos said bitingly.

Porthos ignored the caustic tone with the ease of long practice, long familiar with his brother’s habit of using the sharp side of his tongue to protect his tender heart.

“You’ll still have your brain,” He said, matter of fact. “And a good Captain can inspire his men to do his fighting for him. What he needs is to know about is tactics and diplomacy and you’ve always had them qualities in spades. Not to mention you’ll still have your dominant arm, so with a bit of work on your balance, you can continue to teach the recruits if you’ve a mind.”

Athos pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing. But he nodded his head fractionally to show he was still listening.

“’Course if you do die,” Porthos continued in same conversational tone, as if it didn’t matter at all. “Treville will be forced to choose someone else to lead the Regiment. Bertram has the experience but he’s getting on in years. Etienne’s pretty ambitious but he’s too un-tried to take the Regiment to war. Aramis would be the obvious choice, but you love him too much to place that burden on his shoulders. After Savoy, having to order men to their deaths would break him apart.”

Athos’ head drooped, as if even the thought of Aramis carrying such a burden was too much for him.

“And me?” Porthos said quietly. “If I lost you, I’d survive, just like I always do. But I’d fucking miss you, mate. Like a part of myself was gone.”

He had chosen his blunt words deliberately. Even so he felt nothing but sympathy as Athos’ face crumpled and he choked back a sob.

In an instant he had moved to his side, wrapping his arms firmly around him, pulling him in close, tucking him tightly against his chest as if the fierceness of his love alone could protect him from what was to come.

“My arm,” Athos’ good hand came up to clutch desperately at his brother’s shirt, his voice ragged. “Damn it all to _hell_ , Porthos. Why did it have to be my arm?”

“I know,” Porthos rocked him slightly as if comforting an upset child. “It ain’t fair or right and you’ve every reason to mourn it’s loss. No lies, it's gonna be a long, hard, road ahead. But you’re more to the Regiment, to your brothers, than just your arm. Think on that, eh? Because we love you and we ain’t about to lose you.”

 Athos squeezed his eyes tight shut, as he fought to stem his tears.

 “I will not become a burden on you all.”  He choked out.

 “Ain’t no reason you should,” Porthos said stoutly, bending to drop a soft kiss on his temple. “You’re the Captain of the King’s Musketeers, not some beggar on the street. Just saying you don’t need to do any of it alone.”

Athos’ turned his head and buried his face in Porthos’ neck. For a while they simply sat there, any noise buried under the sounds of the rushing water in the stream. Porthos quietly rubbing gently between his shoulder blades and stroking his hair, as Athos sobbed.

When he was finally done, Porthos produced a large linen handkerchief and handed it over for Athos to wipe his own face, knowing the man would feel the need to take back some control after such an emotional display.

“Don’t you dare start apologizing.” Porthos warned. “Ain’t nothing wrong with shedding a few tears.”

“As I child I was taught that such outbursts were unbecoming of a Comte,” Athos reflected, as he scrubbed at the tear tracks on his face. “I was always expected to be in control of myself. Even laughing too boisterously was considered poor manners.”

“Explains a lot,” Porthos allowed. He gave Athos a fond look. “You’ve come a long way, all things considered.”

“I had help,” Athos offered him a shy smile. “I do not say often enough how grateful that the two of you persisted in the face of so little encouragement.”

“You could be a right grumpy git sometimes in them early days,” Porthos acknowledged. “But we figured that was mostly the mother of all hangovers and we could forgive a lot once we realised all that toffee nosed arrogance hid a heart of gold. You never think twice about helpin’ people in need. No matter how low their station.”

“Tell that to the people of Pinon.” Athos flushed slightly as he recalled his behaviour back then and Porthos’ well-deserved rebuke.

“Eh, now I reckon I’d struggle to feel charitable towards folks who had just drugged and kidnapped me,” Porthos shrugged. “But I knew you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you walked away. And I wouldn’t be any kind of brother if I didn’t give you a kick up the arse when you needed it. But you not only came back, you gave those people a real future.”

“I cannot imagine what my father would say,” Athos reflected. “I have turned my back on something my ancestors worked for centuries to build.”

“You still have the house and the rest of the family holdings, should you ever think to return,” Porthos reminded. “And I reckon your service as a Musketeer has been of more benefit to the Crown than any amount of pouncing about at Court. Don’t know how you ever put up with that and all those sycophantic toadies.”

“I always hated the clothes,” Athos’ lips quirked. “Being stuffed into starched linen and stiff lace and buttoned up into velvet doublets so tight a body could barely breath. As a child I was repeatedly beaten by my tutor for casting off the trappings of my rank and running about the fields barefoot with the village children, in nothing but shirt and breeches.”

Porthos snorted softly at that. For all his sense of duty Athos could be a stubborn sod at times. Still he felt sorry for his friend for being on the receiving end of repeated thrashings from a man who clearly hadn’t taken a moment to truly understand his young charge. Only a fool would continue to repeatedly administer the same punishment when it was clearly having no effect.

“Thought tutors were supposed to be educated types.” He scoffed lightly.

Athos gave him a brief, startled, glance. Quickly softening into a wry smile. Of course, Porthos would see right to the heart of the matter.

“Not mine. He had breeding, which was sufficient to convince my father that he could train me up in the demands of my station. But the man himself was a complete dullard. Were it not for the library at Pinon I fear I would never have learnt anything at all.”

Porthos felt a pang as he imagined a young Athos, his brow furrowed, as he sat quietly in one of the window seats, biting his lip in concentration, as was his habit when he was trying to work something out.

“You have spent far too much time alone, my friend.” He sighed.

“At the time it did not seem strange to me,” Athos admitted. “My mother died when I was young and my father was frequently absent. Thomas sometimes required to be entertained, but he had little interest in the things I enjoyed. Books were my companions, my inspiration, a window to a world of travel and adventure beyond Pinon.”

“Must have been difficult to face up to the fact that as the son and heir you’d have no chance at any of that.” Porthos sympathized.

“I begged my father to allow me a year or two in one of the King’s Regiments, before I settled down at Pinon,” Athos surprised him. “But he flatly forbade it. I told him that I was going anyway. He threatened to disinherit me, but I knew those were empty words. He would never have invited such public scandal into our lives. It was the only time I ever openly defied him. I was generally a dutiful son. He was rather at a loss to understand my intransigence in this particular matter.”

“Is intransigence posh for bloody minded?” Porthos teased gently, rather liking this image of a rebellious Athos.

“He would undoubtedly have said so.” Athos sighed.

"I'm guessing things didn't go to plan?” Porthos knew for a fact that Athos had never served in the military before he joined the Musketeers.

"You could say that. I had written to Treville and arranged a commission in the Cavalry regiment. But in the month before I was due to report my father’s health visibly declined. Inevitably the day to day running on the estate fell onto my shoulders. It was another year before he actually died but his failing health made it impossible for me to leave.”

“That must ‘ave been hard.”

“Not as hard as having my father criticize my every action and countermand my decisions at will,” Athos recalled, slightly bitterly. “He was forever upbraiding me for something or other unbecoming my station.”

“Good thing you’ve left off being a Comte then,” Porthos grinned at him. “Now you can swear, scratch and fart with the rest of us.”

The look of faint horror on Athos’ face was absolutely priceless, provoking Porthos into spluttering mirth. In spite of himself Athos’ lips twitched into a smile and he shook his head fondly.

“I confess, I did not expect to find myself half as suited to the life of a Musketeer as I am.” Athos admitted.

Being a Musketeer had its dangers and discomforts, but the comfortable, functional, dress, the occasion to wear a sword that meant business and better still the opportunity to hone his skills on a daily basis, the thrill of a good fight, the simple joy of being able relish his food, eating it hot and licking the grease of his fingers and, best of all, the wit and camaraderie of his brothers, were all far more to his taste than dealing with crop yields and provincial politics as a rural Comte.

“We’ve a lot in common you and me,” Porthos told him. “We were both born into a destiny that didn’t suit. I wanted more than the Court of Miracles could offer and you yearned to have the freedom to make your own choices. We’ve both had to rely on ourselves more than most.”

“I never went cold or hungry,” Athos refuted, a little embarrassed by the comparison. “And some of the servants were kind.”

“Can you even hear yourself?” Porthos sighed. “What you need to remember is now you have brothers who love you. People you can rely on, no matter what. Only thing I ask is you don’t go pushing us away.”

“I will do my best,” Athos pressed his lips together tightly. “I am perhaps, not quite ready to die just yet, after all.”

“Good. Then we’ll fight this battle like we do every other,” Porthos promised him. “Together.”

**Day Three. Late Morning.**

Despite Treville’s careful recognizance to scout out a route to cause the least possible discomfort to Athos’ increasingly swollen arm it was clear that every movement was agony to him. Even worse, the need to avoid the Spanish patrols ensured that it was slow going, travelling along minor roads and little used cart tracks, causing the horses to stumble over deep ruts frozen solid by a night of biting frost.

“Can’t you knock him out?” d’Artagnan wondered when they stopped to water the horses.

“Aramis says it’s too dangerous,” Porthos shook his head. “His body needs all its strength to fight off the infection and now his fever’s building.”

“I’ll ride ahead and see to it things are ready for his arrival,” Treville cast a worried glance over to where Aramis was trying to coax some of his egg and milk tonic, mixed with a fair proportion of brandy, into Athos. “The Regiment have orders to re-group at the village of St Jean de Luz Athos’ safe return will be a huge boost to moral.”

“If he makes it.” D’Artagnan murmured unhappily.

“He’ll make it,” Porthos tone brooked no argument. “So, you’d best make sure there’s plenty of decent vintage to hand, Minister.”

“Enough to bathe in,” Treville nodded. “If that’s what it takes.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Still think you ain’t fit to lead anyone?” Porthos murmured.

It was dark when they finally arrived at the small village. The sentries guarding the approach road stood to attention as they rode in, Athos drawing on his last ounce of will to maintain something of his usual upright bearing where he sat in front of Pothos. As they rode down the main street every Musketeer they passed drew themselves up, leaving off unloading supplies or cleaning weapons, to salute their Captain.

“Still think you ain’t fit to lead anyone?” Porthos murmured.

“Any one of them would have done the same in my position.” Athos demurred.

“They would have tried,” Aramis corrected. “But we both know it takes more than ordinary courage to withstand torture. Even the very best of men can be broken.”

“I am hardly sound,” Athos pointed out wryly. “I expect even Serge could best me at present.”

“Aramis’ point in a nutshell, I think,” d’Artagnan grinned, as they pulled up in the small square front of the Inn. “Ortiz may have made you bleed, but nothing he did could diminish your nobility of spirit.”

“A bit battered but still serviceable?” Athos offered with a self-depreciating smile.

“If by ‘serviceable’ you mean would I still follow you to hell and back and thank God to be allowed to do so?,” d’Artagnan said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Then yes, I suppose so.”

“Amen to that.” Aramis vowed.

“To the end of my days.” Porthos agreed.

“Are you gents planning on staying out here all night?” Treville’s voice called as the door to the Inn swung open bathing them in a triangle of light as he strode forward issuing orders. “Porthos, pass the Captain down to me. Georges, hold the door open. Francois, take their horses.”

Determined not to show weakness in front of the men Athos almost bit through his tongue to stifle his cries as Porthos helped him slide off into Treville’s waiting arms. He was slightly startled when the Minster wrapped his arms around him and hugged him fiercely, but after a second’s hesitation he dropped his head on his shoulder and relaxed into his embrace.

“Welcome home, son.” Treville said thickly.

“It is good to be back on French soil.” Athos managed.

“Come on,” Treville, looped Athos’ good arm over his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around his waist, taking his weight. “Let’s get you inside.”

As they turned towards the Inn the men spilling out of the taproom formed themselves up into an honour guard, as they too saluted their Captain’s courage.

“If the men will persist in this behaviour it’s going to be very difficult to get anything done.” Athos observed wryly, not quite able to hide how touched he was at the depth of their loyalty.

“They’re proud of their Captain,” Treville nodded to the left. “And they’re not the only ones.”

Turning his head, Athos’ heart caught in his throat when he realised all three of his brothers had also lined up, standing to attention, and saluting along with the rest of the honour guard.

“You’re all idiots.” He murmured, his voice soft with love and pitched for their ears only.

“Yeah, but we’re your idiots.” Porthos smirked.

It was only when Treville nudged gently at his side, turning him around that Athos realized that the small square was now flooded with Musketeers. He saw Georges with his head wound neatly bandaged and Gerard with his splinted arm suspended in a sling. Across from them Bertram was grinning like a loon, with his arm cast around young Pierre’s shoulders, and there was Guillaume and Bernard and Henri and so many other familiar faces safely home that Athos felt quite weak from relief.

“Three cheers for Captain Athos.” A voice called.

The resulting _hurrahs_ rang around the square as hats flew up into the air. Drawing himself up as much as he was able, Athos resolutely ignored his hurts to return their salute.

“It has always been my great privilege to serve alongside my brothers,” He addressed the men. “Now that war is in the air the challenges we face are greater than ever. But as God is my witness, I have never been prouder to be a Musketeer.”

His hand went instinctively to his sword, only to realize his hip was bare. But before he could even draw breath, d’Artagnan had stepped forward and placed his own sword in his palm. Athos gave him a grateful look, before raising the sword up.

“All for one.”

The sound of manifold blades slicking free from their scabbards cut through the air as every Musketeer present mimicked his action.

“ _And one for all._ ”    

“Right then,” Aware that his brother was flagging Porthos came around to take Athos’ other side. “That’ll do. Time you was in bed.”

D’Artagnan went ahead to clear their path and Aramis loitered at the rear long enough to ensure that none of the men returned to the warmth of the tap room until Athos had made the painful and laborious trek up the stairs into the privacy of their bedchamber.

It was quite clearly the best room in the Inn. Brightly lit with several candelabras, dominating the space was an enormous tester bed with a thick feather mattress and a hand stitched quilt. To one side was a massive fireplace with two large armchairs, blazing out heat. In front of it was set a large wooden bathtub, with a stout lid, a bowl of soft soap and a pile of soft towels ready for use. There was even an ornate wardrobe and a set of four plump upholstered chairs set around a fine inlaid table, already set with several bottles of good red wine, a decent brandy and rich roasted meats, soft white bread, a decent brie and even a bowl of candied fruits.

Glimpsed through a door was a private dressing room, furnished with a chaise lounge, a pile of bedding neatly folded at one end, in case a servant was required overnight.

Treville and Porthos wasted no time in settling Athos into one of the arm chairs. Frowning at his pallor, d’Artagnan made his way over to the table and poured out a measure of brandy, kneeling un-self-consciously at his mentor’s side as he helped him to drink.

“Think Athos can stomach any of that?” Porthos nodded at the rich food.

“Probably not,” Aramis made a face. “It’s tricky. His body needs more than the likes of thin broth or beef tea if we are to build him up sufficiently to survive what’s ahead, but his body is too weak to stomach anything too heavy. What he needs is something nourishing enough to bolster his strength but light enough not to tax his system.”

“Alright,” Porthos nodded, taking that in. “You and d’Artagnan get Athos settled. I’ll sort that.”

A short time later Treville came into the Inn’s kitchen to find Porthos, with sweat forming on his brow and his face twisted into a grimace of effort as he pounded away at something in a bowl.

“What are you doing?”

“Aramis said Athos’ body needs more than invalid food if he’s to keep up his strength,” Porthos paused in his work. “But he’s too weak to handle anything proper. So, I thought maybe if I could blend up some of this stew there’d still be all the goodness in it but it would go down easier. Even if he can only stomach a few mouthfuls it’ll do him more good than some weak broth, but it’s slow going getting it smooth enough.”

Not for the first time Treville was impressed with the lengths these men would go to in order to look after each other.

“Move over,” He commanded. “The work will go all the quicker with the two of us taking turns.”

Muscles honed by years of sword work were put to good use, as they pounded the meat and gravy into a smooth paste. Both men had cast off their jackets and were short of breath by the time it was done to their mutual satisfaction. Ladling the resulting thick, rich, liquid into a pan, Porthos added a little water to make it more palatable and ensured it was thoroughly warmed through, before pouring it into a pot and popping a lid on to keep the heat in.

Upstairs, Athos had been bathed and dressed in a rich, gold embroidered dressing gown, in a quite startling shade of purple, before being settled in the extravagant bed.

“It’s a gift from his Majesty’s own wardrobe, in grateful thanks for Athos’ loyal service.” Aramis explained.

“He looks like he’s playing dress up in his Granny’s curtains.” Porthos muttered.

“It is quite .. striking,” Aramis admitted, the high fashion a little much, even for his flamboyant tastes. “But the material is far softer and warmer than anything any of us could afford. And right now, Athos needs every possible comfort.”

“He wouldn’t even try it,” d’Artagnan appeared in front of them, looking disconsolately at an untouched plate of soft white bread, with the hard crusts carefully removed, each piece thinly spread with rich, soft, cheese. The Gascon had been so sure that this soft treat would spark Athos’ appetite. The man loved his brie. “He says just the sight of it turns his stomach."

“Here, let me give this a try.” Porthos offered.

“What’s that?” D’Artagnan looked curiously at the pot in his hands. 

“Well, it’s not quite the beef stew from the Tavern d’Or,” Porthos shrugged as he named Athos’ favourite meal. “But it’s got a bit more about it than some invalid broth.”

Aramis lifted the lid off the pot and sniffed. Picking up a spoon, he gave it an experimental stir and then lifted a spoonful to his lips. After a moment his face creased into a pleased smile.

“Porthos, my friend, you are a culinary genius.”

“That’s a good thing, yeah?”

“It’s exactly what Athos needs,” Aramis assured him.  

As Porthos made his way over to the bed, Treville took a plate of his own and piled it full with bread and meat, before going over to lean on the wall. He so rarely got a chance to see these men in repose.

Over near the window Aramis had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, letting his suspenders hang down, as he put together a plate of bread and cheese.  D’Artagnan was seated at the table picking unhappily at his own meal of roast meat and bread.

“You need to keep your strength up.” Aramis reminded him.

“I know,” d’Artagnan looked up. “It’s just hard. I’m worried about Athos, and what the coming war will mean for all of us,” He paused. “And then there’s Constance.”

“Ah,” Aramis pulled out a chair and sat down. “I take it ..?”

“It’s been _two_ months now,” d’Artagnan said plaintively as if continuing a previous conversation. “I don’t mind so much for myself,” Although, the way the younger man was jiggling his right leg rather gave the lie to that statement. “But Constance so wants to be a mother and I’d feel easier if she had a child to care for when I’m away fighting.”

_Oh_ , Treville realised.

“There are a number of treaties on how to promote fecundity,” Aramis said kindly. “Certain foods, particular herbs, specific positions.”

Rather than being utterly mortified by such frank words, as Treville might have expected, d’Artagnan merely asked with an edge of hope.

“Those can really help? I mean she was married to Bonacieux for so long and they never .. ”

“My word on it,” Aramis put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, no hint of teasing in his tone. “When we return to Paris I shall introduce you to certain volumes in my personal library which will give you the answers you need.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said in obvious relief, as he placed his own hand on top of Aramis’. “I know it would mean the world to Constance,” He gave a shy smile. “And I would rather like a son, I could teach to use a sword.”

“Your first may be a girl.” Aramis pointed out.

“Then I’ll teach her,” d’Artagnan’s smiled broadened. “This is Constance’s daughter we’re talking about, after all.”

“I stand corrected.” Aramis gave a little bow.

D’Artagnan tucked into his meal with a much better heart after that, gratitude shining in his eyes. “You’re a good brother, Aramis.”

Treville shifted slightly as he realised _that_ was the crux of the matter. D’Artagnan had had no fear of laying bare his feelings in so intimate a concern, knowing that Aramis would be both a knowledgeable and supportive confident. Someone who would understand more than most the yearning to be a father.

Turning his attention across the room Treville huffed a quiet laugh, when he saw Porthos hadn’t bothered to draw the chair up to the bedside. He had simply shucked off his boots and climbed up to settle himself beside Athos, his shoulder a warm press of support against Athos’ good side. Mindful of his Captain’s dignity, he was carefully, holding the bowl under Athos’ chin, so that his brother was free to use his good arm to feed himself.

“Just try a little, eh?” Porthos was encouraging. “Treville and I spent a good hour pounding it into submission. It’s good, I promise. And we watered it down a bit so it won’t unsettle your stomach.”

Picking up the spoon in a shaking hand, Athos guided it to his mouth, his eyes widening as he took in the rich, smooth, flavours. He took another spoonful and then another.

“That’s good, Ath,” Porthos praised with a proud smile. “You’re doing real good.”

Treville almost choked on a mouthful of food.

_Ath?_

He had already thought it something of a miracle that these men had coaxed the former Comte de la Frere so far out of his shell of formality and reserve, so that he actually relaxed under their gentle teasing and welcomed their fond touches.

He had sometimes overheard Porthos use a nickname for Aramis when the man was laid low with sickness or fever. And, despite the fact that, at the Gascon’s own insistence, his brothers avoided using d’Artagnan’s Christian name, the Minister strongly suspected Athos was the exception to that rule. He could just imagine how the sometimes headstrong and excitable young man would settle when his mentor issued a quiet ‘Charles’ in fond praise, or stern reprimand.

But that Olivier, François, Louis, d’Athos, Comte de la Frere would permit such familiarity. Treville would never have believed, if he had not heard it with his own ears.

And yet.

Not only had Athos not so much as bristled. He had smiled, a soft, bashful, smile, two pink spots appearing in his pale cheeks, in shy pleasure at the endearment.

It was, Treville realized, just another example of the gossamer threads which knitted these men together into an unbreakable bond. Taking a deep swallow of his wine he also recognized that there was no chance that they had simply forgotten that he was here. They were allowing him to see them at their most intimate, not as their superior officer, but as someone Athos considered family.

“Minister?” Aramis appeared at his side. “The Inn keeper is asking if you would like him to prepare another room?” He tilted his head, his eyes soft with understanding “Or we could make up the chaise in the dressing room, if you would prefer to be close at hand?”

Treville knew the others would all be piling into the large bed, hoping to comfort Athos with their proximity and keep any nightmares at bay. He was touched that they would also think about his feelings. 

“Thank you, Aramis. Don’t trouble the Inn Keeper. I'll make up the chaise myself.”

It wasn’t that long since he had to make do with a bed roll on the hard ground. Sometimes, ensconced in his four poster bed in the Palace, with its feather mattress and heavily embroidered quilts, he missed those days.

And then they all stilled as a respectful knock at the door announced that the King’s surgeon and his assistant had arrived and were waiting in the taproom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos dressing gown was 100% inspired by Dolokov's Persian outfit in War and Peace.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So now it will be my own failing if I die?” Sure enough, Athos sounded almost amused. “Tell me, do you play chess, Monsieur?”

**The Inn. Late evening.**

Across the room Athos looked up, his eyes shadowed with pain and regret. In a gesture all the more touching for its simplicity, Porthos reached out and enfolded his hand in his.

“I suppose I should go down.” Aramis stepped forward, visibly reluctant.

“No,” Treville shook his head. This at least he could spare them all. “You stay with Athos. I’ll see to any arrangements.”

The Inn Keeper’s son conducted him downstairs to the table in the tap room where M. Martian and his young assistant were taking off their cloaks and hats as the Inn Keeper set a bottle of his best vintage and plates of succulent roast meat in front of them.

“M. Martain,” Treville shook his hand warmly. “Thank you for making the journey. I know it could not have been easy given the season.”

“I am sure my discomfort was nothing compared to what your men endured during their captivity,” Martain allowed easily. “How fares my patient?”

As they ate Treville endeavoured to ensure these men understood exactly what was at stake, for Athos, for those who loved him, for the Regiment, for France and the King himself. Hence his personal plea to Louis to secure the services of the best surgeon in the land.

“How far up his arm has the infection spread?” M. Martain enquired.

“It is moving up towards his elbow,” Treville admitted. “But it has not yet reached the joint.”

“I am sure that I don’t have to tell you that the procedure is more difficult the closer it comes to the body.” M. Martain pressed his lips together. “Time is of the essence.”

“Aramis said much the same,” Treville agreed. “He feels it best that there is no undue delay. He suggests that Athos should be allowed to rest tonight and the operation performed first thing in the morning.”

“I have heard of the Musketeer Aramis,” M. Martain observed. “He has a reputation as a diligent student of medical matters and is well known to the apothecaries of Paris and those monasteries who study the healing arts. Your Captain Athos is fortune to find himself under his care.”

“The two men have a history of service together. They are as close as brothers, there is nothing Aramis will not do to ensure Athos’ survival,” Treville smiled fondly. “You will also have to contend with a man whose strength and courage has seen him rise above the disadvantages of his birth to join the King’s own regiment and a hot-headed young Gascon who loves Athos fiercely.”

“Those would be the Musketeers Porthos and d’Artagnan I assume?” M. Martain surprised him. Noting Treville’s expression he was quick to explain. “I have made my own enquires Minister, I know each of these men are rarely without the others. Such steadfast support is invaluable in maintaining a patient’s well-being. Not to mention that your own actions in securing my services speak volumes about the esteem in which you hold this man. Rest assured, a member of my own family could not receive better care than I shall give your Captain.”  

“If you can save Athos, all of France will stand in your debt.” Treville vowed.

“Then I suggest you endeavour to ensure that he is as well rested as possible. We shall reconvene in the morning. Be assured, I have brought with me everything I might require.”

In deference to the lateness of the hour, Treville didn’t bother to knock in case Athos was already sleeping. As he slipped silently into the room he was unsurprised to see d’Artagnan tucked close into Athos’ right side and on his left Porthos was snoring softly, the painful, swollen limb, carefully supported across his broad chest. For his part Athos was sprawled on his back, his face tucked into Porthos’ neck and his hand entwined in d’Artagnan’s shirt.

The soft click of a musket being primed next to his ear made his blood run cold.

“At this range the ball will pass straight through me.” Treville very carefully did not move.

“That is undeniably true,” Aramis agreed as he stepped out of the shadows. “But as anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of the human anatomy could tell you, it would still do enough damage to kill you. As bluffs go it’s more likely to encourage your enemy to test the theory.”

“Then it’s a good job we’re not at odds,” Treville clapped him on the shoulder in apology. He should have realized with Athos incapacitated unable to defend himself that even in the safety of an Inn surrendered by Musketeers his brothers’ protective instincts would be out in full force. “How has he been?”

Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face, his stark pallor, the dark shadows under his eyes and his pained expression the only response that Treville really needed. No doubt whatever had passed between these four in his absence had been hard for each of them to bear. 

“He will meet this challenge with courage just as he always does,” Aramis spoke with quiet pride. “We have done all we can. It is in God’s hands now.”

Treville looked over at the figure in the bed in concern. Athos had already borne so much pain in his life. It seemed so unjust that he should be required to bear this burden too.

“He won’t wake tonight,” Aramis advised. “His body was already at it’s very limits.”

“And you’ve drugged him.”

“Merely a mild herbal draught,” Aramis was unapologetic. “Nothing to unduly tax his system. He was already beyond exhausted. There’s no sense in him staying awake worrying, using up strength that will be needed tomorrow.”

Treville thought he could probably say the same thing about Aramis. He was considering ordering the man to rest when he noticed the sheets of onion paper scattered across the table, several covered with Aramis, elegant ecclesiastical hand. Looking back at the sharp shooter he realized his fingers were stained with ink. `

“What’s all this?”   

“Ah that,” Aramis winced, “Athos asked me to see to his affairs. I assured him I would see his wishes were honoured should the worst happen.” 

“It’s a painful duty. One we might all wish deferred for many years yet. But it will put his mind at ease to know that his concerns are safe in your hands.”

“That’s just it, I cannot possibly see all his instructions carried out,” Aramis protested, raking a frustrated hand through hair. “There are numerous bequests to charity that he wishes to continue. Those are fairly straightforward. Athos has always tried to do good with his wealth and the money for those has been carefully set aside. The only surprise is how numerous they are. It’s a wonder he could keep himself in clean shirts, never mind wine.”

“A form of penance perhaps,” Treville observed quietly. “To take on on the mantle of a Musketeer and live strictly within his stipend.”

Aramis stilled as he absorbed that.

“When he is seeking to loose himself he will always drink the house wine, no matter how rough it might be. Close to vinegar at times. The only times I’ve seen him display any kind of largess has been on someone else’s behalf,” He sighed. “Trust Athos to find yet another way to punish himself.”

“So, if that isn’t your concern, what is?” Treville tried to get the conversation back on track. “Is it that his former tenants at Pinon won’t be able to continue farming his lands without molestation?”

“No, Athos, with his foresight, has made cast iron provision for them. But in his fever, he has forgotten that those things he most wishes to bestow were lost at the hands of the Spanish, or razed to the ground at la Frere.” Aramis looked saddened. “He sacrificed his own sword to retrieve d’Artagnan’s, you know.”

“I assumed as much,” Treville nodded. “What are his bequests?”

“D’Artagnan was to receive his sword and his hat, Porthos his parrying dagger and his signet ring, all lost to the Spanish. His father’s watch was intended for you, and his mother’s favourite turquoise broach was destined for Constance. Both destroyed when the house at Pinon was razed to the ground.” Aramis scrubbed a hand across his face. “He wished me to have my pick of the books in that magnificent library. I don’t care about the _things_ , it’s the sentiment of it. He has given such careful thought that we might each receive a memento of him that would bring us joy and yet his happiness must be thwarted in even that small comfort.”

“Aramis,” Treville spoke carefully. The man’s pain was about far more than this sad duty. “When I told d’Artagnan you had done everything you could to save Athos’ arm, those were not just empty words.”

“I know,” Aramis sighed. At Treville’s skeptical look he insisted. “I do. Truly. It’s just Athos has had so little joy in his life. It seems too cruel that he must endure this also. He has done so much good for others he has earned a little mercy.”

"Perhaps, to have a life well lived, loved and respected, as the Captain of the King’s Musketeers with his brothers and their progeny around him, is his mercy,” Treville concluded after a moment. “It’s a better end than many he could have met.”

They both knew in his grief and pain as he fled from Pinon how close Athos had come to a lonely and brutal end on some European battlefield before he ever crossed paths with his brothers. He might have drunk himself into a stupor and ended up dead in the gutter. Or lived as if in purgatory as a provincial Comte if he had followed his father’s edict and married the beautiful but power hungry Catherine.

“I know,” Aramis paused. Then remarkably a slow smile spread across his features. “Actually, Captain, you may just have given me an idea, for a more enduring legacy than our dear Athos’ lost behests. If you aren’t quite ready to seek your bed, perhaps I could prevail upon your assistance?”

**The Inn. Dawn.**

By morning Athos was visibly weaker, his rising fever making him increasingly confused. Sometimes he thought himself in back in Paris, or as a young boy at Pinon. Worse of all, for his brothers, was when he still believed himself to be a prisoner in Ortiz’s hands and turned his face away from them, fighting off all attempts to comfort him.

“Athos,” Treville spoke firmly. “Stop this, son. You’ll hurt yourself. You did your duty. You’re safe now.”

Athos’ head remained stubbornly turned away. From the other side of the bed, where he was on his knees, quietly saying the rosary over his stricken brother, Aramis could see a look of profound sadness settle over Treville’s face at his inability to ease Athos’ suffering. It made the Minister look more tired and worn that Aramis had ever seen. Rising smoothly to his feet he went over and collected a bottle from his saddlebag.

“Try this,” He encouraged, offering Treville the un-corked vial. “Sometimes, a familiar scent can be helpful in orientating a patient.”

“Smelling salts?” Treville looked skeptical, Athos was hardly some swooning maiden.

“Not exactly,” Aramis looked faintly embarrassed. “It’s a salve I make to protect Athos’ skin from being burnt by the sun. He has always found it soothing and it’s scent is familiar enough that it might bring him back to himself.”

Treville hid his smile, imagining Aramis diligently reading up on the best ingredients to protect his brother’s pale skin from the summer sun’s relentless glare, going to the market, more than likely needing a special journey to an apothecary, carefully mixing up the salve and then slipping the bottle into his saddlebag, against the next time the sun rose too high in the sky, so he could casually produce it, as if it was of no consequence.

He doubted Athos had been fooled for an instant. He could well imagine how touched he had been to receive his brother’s love, so carefully packaged in a small, glass, jar.

Waving the bottle of sweet smelling salve under Athos’ nose, sure, enough, his nostrils twitched and he blinked rapidly, before apparently focusing on the room around him.

“Athos, are you back with us?” Treville asked

“Captain,” Athos blinked, clearly still a little disorientated. “What do you need, sir?”

“Just for you to get well,” Treville picked up his good hand and squeezed it fondly. “Do you know where you are?”

“An Inn?” Athos paused. Then he visibly gathered himself as recollection hit.  “My arm. Is it time?”

D’Artagnan, from where he had taken up sentry by the door, suddenly, irrationally, wished Treville would lie. He knew it had to happen. They had been over and over this, since that day near the river, it was Athos’ arm or his life. There were no other choices.

That didn’t stop him wishing things could be different.

Nor realizing that the operation to take Athos’ arm might very well take his life anyway.

“The King’s surgeon is waiting,” Treville acknowledged. “His reputation is well deserved and he’s a good man. You’ll be in safe hands.”

“Then let us not delay,” Athos said tonelessly. “Call him up.”

Each step of M. Martain’s boots on the stairs was like a dagger in d’Artagnan’s soul. Both Treville and Aramis had assured him that this man was Athos’ best hope. D’Artagnan still reserved the right to resent him and his office with every fibre of his being.

“Captain Athos, I profoundly regret that we must meet in such circumstances,” Even though he refused to look up, at edge of his vision d’Artagnan saw a figure bowing. “Is there anything you wish to know about the forthcoming procedure?”

Somewhat against his will, M. Martian’s respectful tone, his use of Athos’ rank and his willingness to acknowledge his patient as a participant in the business to come, unlike some of the butchers who plied his trade as if the men in their care were little more than carcasses under their knives, earned the man d’Artagnan’s grudging respect.

“Nothing at all, I assure you,” Athos said, using that tone of stiff formality he used when he wished to disguise his true feelings. “I have seen it done many times before.”

“Sadly, as have I, many times, during my medical training. Men who called themselves surgeons, setting forth without skill or judgement, it can be quiet horrific to watch,” M. Martain paused, his voice softening. “Rest assured, Captain, this will be nothing like that.”

Lifting his eyes from where he had been fixedly staring at his boots, d’Artagnna realised with a start of surprise that the surgeon was younger than he had imagined. Sensibly dressed in shoes a man could actually walk in, a well-made cotton shirt with little pearl buttons, dark tan leather breeches and a deep blue coat trimmed with gold. The wardrobe of a prosperous and learned man rather than some court flop.

“You cannot _possibly_ know that, Monsiuer,” Athos accused, a hint of belligerence in his tone.

And for the first time, d’Artagnan glimpsed, with sudden sympathy, the stark fear hiding behind that stoic façade.

“As a Musketeer you will no doubt understand the importance of precision with a blade, Captain,” M. Martain spoke calmly. “Know that I take as much pride as any soldier in my skill, and have worked as diligently to hone it. You have my word that things will be as clean and quick as possible.”

“I note you did not say ‘painless’. Athos drawled in deliberate provocation.

“I am not in the habit of lying,” M. Martain acknowledged. “It is a serious operation. But if the incision is precise, the blood loss kept to a minimum, and the infection managed, it is a survival one. I would stake my reputation on it on and have many times. The only patients I have lost are those whose general condition was already too weak before I was called to their bedside," He smiled. "I rather think the man who faced down that bastard Ortiz is made of sterner stuff.”

D’Artagnan exchanged a mildly impressed look with Porthos. Whilst the words seemed blunt, it was _exactly_ the right sort of tone to win Athos over.

“So now it will be my own failing if I die?” Sure enough, Athos sounded almost amused. “Tell me, do you play chess, Monsieur?”

“I regret my medical studies have not allowed me the time to master the game,” M. Martain admitted. “But I would welcome the chance to learn.”

“Then if I survive I will teach you,” With an effort Athos raised his good hand from the mattress and offered it to the surgeon. “I rather think you will have an aptitude for it.

Martain took Athos’ hand between both of his own and pressed firmly.

“I shall hold you to that Captain.” He bowed. “And now, I shall go and ready my things,” He paused. “Some of my patients find comfort in preparing themselves in prayer. But I suspect you will find far greater solace in the company of these fine gentleman.”

“Good call that,” Porthos approved, glaring at the others when they all turned to stare at him. “What?”

“Porthos, my friend,” Athos rasped, amusement clear in his tone. “Don’t ever change.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis pulled out his rosary and wound it around his wrist. Porthos climbed onto the bed, gathering Athos in his arms. Somehow d’Artagnan forced himself to his feet and backed away across the room until his shoulders met the wall, with only one thought in his head.
> 
> Please God, don’t let Athos die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing gory here I promise ..

As the door closed behind the King’s Surgeon an uneasy silence settled over the room. These men were soldiers, death in battle was an ever present reality, but that did not make them any readier to mourn the loss of a brother.

Never short on courage, Porthos was the first to move. He pushed himself off the wall, his footsteps sounding un-naturally loud on the wooden floor as he approached the bed, his expression fiercely determined.

“There ain’t nothing I need to say to you that hasn’t already been said,” He declared. “But I’ll say this again, cos I don’t think you can hear it too often, and it bears repeating. You’re a good man Athos, and a dammed fine soldier. It’s my honour to serve with you. But more than that, you’re my family, and I don’t need to tell you what it means to me to have that in my life when we both know what’s it’s like to be without.”

He cupped his hand around Athos’ jaw, swallowing hard as his eyes filled with tears.

“I’ll be right here. I’m not leaving you. You die and you’ll do it in my arms. But I’ll telling you now, you had fuckin’ well better well fight this. Cos, I don’t want to imagine my life without you.”

Athos blinked, his eyes suspiciously bright at so fervent a declaration.

“I shall do my utmost to oblige.”

Porthos rewarded him with a gentle smile, stroking his thumb lightly across one pale, hollow, cheek. Bending from the waist he pressed his forehead lightly against Athos’ brow.

“Captain.” The single word reverberated with love and respect.

Then, with obvious reluctance, he stepped back.

Next Trevillle came forward, his features tired and worn, but his eyes shining with pride. He reached out a hand and smoothed back a sweat soaked curl from his Captain’s brow, viewing him with a look of such tenderness, that Athos’ eyes grew very wide and vulnerable.

“I know you’re scared, son. You’d be a fool not to be,” Treville’s voice was soft and fond, more doting father than commanding officer. “But rest assured M. Martain is the best there is. I know your courage and I know you can endure this. France needs you, the King needs you, your brothers need you and God knows I ..,”

Treville faltered, suddenly quite unable to force another word past the lump in his throat. When Athos quietly laid his good hand on his arm, in an attempt to comfort him, he was almost undone.

“I have known you since you were fourteen,” He managed. “I may not be your father but I could not be more proud of the man you have become. I cannot order you to live. That lies in God’s hands. But know this, every last man in this regiment would be diminished by your loss.”

Treville hesitated for the briefest of moments and then bent over and pressed careful lips to Athos’s forehead.  
“I know it will be hard. Just do your best,” He murmured. “That’s all I have ever asked.”

“Yes, sir.” Athos nodded tightly.

Aramis was next, rising gracefully from his knees to settle himself on the edge of the bed. With a fond smile he placed a cool hand on Athos’ fevered brow.

“You look tired.” Athos chided, taking in the dark circles around his brother’s eyes and his hollow cheeks. “And you haven’t been eating.”

“Ever the older brother,” Aramis smiled wearily, his eyes lit with love. “I’ve had a particularly demanding patient. He hasn’t allowed me a moment’s peace.”

“You cannot care for your patients, if you do not tend to your own needs.” Athos chided.

“So, you have told me, more times than I can recall,” Aramis acknowledged, he moved his hand to squeeze Athos’ pale fingers. “If it will ease your mind, I will feast like a King and sleep like a log as soon as my brother, whom I love dearly you understand, is no longer in danger of his life.”

“Aramis,” Athos’ tone was low and serious. “No man on this earth could have had a better care for my welfare than you. You have toiled selflessly to seek every possibly remedy. If I should die it will be because God has decreed it. You understand?” 

“And here I thought you were all done with God,” Aramis managed, shakily, humbled by his brother’s insight. “Despite the fact that my God, would never forsake such a truly noble soul.”

Athos’ face clouded.

“Some sins are un-pardonable.”

Aramis ran his thumb across the thin bones across the back of Athos’ hand. He knew his brother had felt himself a monster for hanging the wife he loved in the name of justice. Her claim that she had been telling the truth all those years ago had thrown him even deeper into a maelstrom of self-recrimination. Aramis held his opinions on that but he hated the fact that Athos was facing death feeling that he was not worthy of redemption.

“The Cardinal himself would be more deserving of the fires of hell than you,” He countered. “Perhaps this will help you see things more clearly,” He pulled a sheaf of onion paper from his jacket. “I’ll warrant it is far from complete. For all that I have taxed my memory, added Porthos’ recollections, pestered the Captain for his insight and included d’Artagnan’s knowledge of more recent events, no doubt there are numerous acts of kindness, we simply did not observe.”

“What is this?” Athos frowned, as Aramis held the list so he could read it. “Gerald Bisset, the royal leather smith? The one whose apprentice intended to steal away with his tools and his life savings?” 

None of them were surprised that Athos remembered not only the man, but his circumstances, even though it had been years since they had had any dealings with him and he was no-one of any power or influence. 

“And him a widower with two young children to support,” Porthos nodded. “He could have lost everything, including his good name if his apprentice’s plan to blacken his reputation had succeeded.”

“It was our first mission together,” Aramis explained for d’Artagnan’s benefit. “With no tools and no money to buy new ones, Bisset was facing ruin. With his workmanship also discredited he would not even have been able to find work in another man’s employ.”

“The apprentice was a clever sort, there weren’t any reason to believe Bisset wasn’t the one on the take,” Porthos continued. “Especially when he had neither money or influence to recommend ‘im.”

“Except, our dear Athos spoke to his neighbours, who were weavers and tanners, simple folk whose opinions carried no weight in the scheme of things.”

“Cept they all said Bisset was a good man who worked hard, was an honest sort who kept a respectable home and took good care of his children,” Porthos looked fondly at the man in the bed. “Athos believed he was innocent and moved heaven and earth to clear his name.” 

“Every name on this list is someone who you have rendered assistance to in the last six years,” Aramis told Athos. “Either in the service of the crown or out of the goodness of your heart and the contents of your own purse.”

“Alms are no hardship to those who can afford to offer them.” Athos protested.

“Tell that to all them rich toadies who spend hundreds of livres on silk and lace and the like and then put just a couple of sous in the charity box of a Sunday.” Porthos huffed.

“And your deeds have always been far more than alms,” Treville reminded, scanning the list over Aramis’ shoulder. “These folk owe their livelihoods, the welfare of their families, their very lives to your intervention.”

“I hardly acted alone,” Athos protested. He nodded at the list. “Agnes and Henri, that was entirely Aramis’ doing.”

“I could not have done anything without your support and assistance, mon frère,” Aramis corrected. “Another Lieutenant might have rebuked me for my foolishness, even insisted that I return the babe as ordered. You came to my aid without hesitation, or a thought for the consequences of disobedience, because it was the right thing to do. All of these people I have recorded have reason to be grateful to you. Including each of us here. My fervent hope was this would remind you of the true worth of your continued existence.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Athos promised, his heart in his eyes. Just thinking of how Aramis, who had already run himself ragged taking care of him, must have diligently toiled away through the night compiling this list, gave him strength. “You have my sincere thanks.”

“You can thank me by not dying.”

Aramis reached out and drew the sign of the cross gently on Athos’ brow. Before waggling his eyebrows and kissing his brother very deliberately on the tip of his nose.

“You are incorrigible.” Athos huffed fondly. 

Finally, d’Artagnan stood awkwardly by the end of the bed, his nerves evident. The others had seemed to find it so simple, to speak from the heart, to sum up what Athos meant to them. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. He looked up to the ceiling as if for inspiration, tears building in his eyes. “What you’re facing I can’t imagine. To lose your arm. I don’t know what that would do to me. For the world to lack your grace and skill. It’s just plain wrong.”

“Oi, you’re supposed to be helpin’,” Porthos scolded. “Not making ‘im feel worse.”

“It’s alright,” Athos demurred. “Let him speak his mind.”

“Here’s the thing,” d’Artagnan choked out, as he came around the bed to stand by Athos’ side. “Of all the things in my life, I have never been prouder of anything than to be able to call you my brother. If what it took for you to live through this, so I could still have you in my life, was for me to give up my arm too, I would offer it without a second thought. And still consider that I had the best of the bargain.”

The tears were flowing freely down his face now, and he made no more to check them, unashamed to show the depth of his feelings to these men as he fell to his knees by Athos’ bedside. 

“You have been friend, brother, mentor, and sometimes father, to me. Without you I would have been utterly lost. I will never be able to repay all you have done for me. You have often said my father raised a good man, but I am a far better man for having known you.”

“It has been my privilege, to aid you in realizing your potential,” Athos smiled tiredly at him, with some effort raising a shaking hand to place it on d’Artagnan’s head. “But the rest was all on you.”

“I’m not ready to do this without you,” d’Artagnan knew that was childish, but it was true. “Don’t die. Please?”

“I cannot promise you that,” Athos’ voice was patient and serious, ever the teacher. “But know this,” Athos slid his hand down to cup d’Artagnan’s cheek. “I would never willingly disappoint you.”

A shaky smile blossomed across d’Artagnan’s face. He’d heard the others say he was a good influence on Athos and the man’s own actions had proven time and again that d’Artagnan’s good opinion was important to him.

“I know.”

“Good,” Athos patted his cheek fondly, before he let his hand fall back.

And then it was time.

Aramis pulled out his rosary and wound it around his wrist. Porthos climbed onto the bed, gathering Athos in his arms. Somehow d’Artagnan forced himself to his feet and backed away across the room until his shoulders met the wall, with only one thought in his head.

_Please God, don’t let Athos die._

It wasn’t much of a prayer, he knew. Aramis could probably have cited a line of scripture, or put his finger on the perfect psalm. But he plea was heartfelt. Surely that counted for something?

Across the room Trevillle was already beckoning M. Martain and his assistant in. D’Artagnan felt the colour drain from his face as they set up a folding table and began to lay out a number of knives and saws.

He was dimly aware that Aramis had gently, but firmly, caught Athos’ chin and turned his face away from the grisly sight and was holding a cup of wine to his lips.

“Eh, now. You won’t need them,” Porthos’ voice was objecting. “I’ll hold him.”

D’Artagnan looked up to see M. Martain’s assistant was unpacking some broad leather straps.

“I don’t doubt your desire to aid your Captain, but it’s important that he remains quite still during the procedure,” M. Martain explained, not unkindly. “One man, no matter how strong cannot accomplish that.”

“I said I’ll hold ‘im.” Porthos growled. “You ain’t strapping him down like some animal.”

“P’rthos,”

Athos’ voice was slightly slurred already from whatever concoction Aramis was feeding him. Yet Porthos instantly turned, giving him his full attention.

“Let .. the good man .. do his duty.”

Porthos scowled, his lips pursued together, clearly unhappy, but he nodded sharply and sat back, allowing the young man to continue laying out the restraints ready for use.

“Your men are very well disciplined, Minister.” M. Martain glanced at Treville.

Treville snorted softly and d’Artagnan just _knew_ that he was thinking about all the times he had upbraided them for their complete lack of propriety in duelling with the Red Guards. In Athos’ defence he was rarely the instigator of the brawls, but since he had usually felled the greatest number of opponents he had always been willing to share the blame.

“That’s not discipline Monsieur,” Treville corrected, with a fond look at Athos, who was now resting against the pillows, looking pale and spent, in absolutely no position to enforce his will. “That’s love.”

The sudden lump in d’Artagnan’s throat made it difficult to swallow and the burn of tears behind his eyes made it difficult to see. But he blinked fiercely, and lifted his chin bravely. This might be one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he was determined to make Athos proud.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would take the sound of Athos’ single agonized cry to his grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some description of a surgical procedure. But if you have read this far you were expecting that, right?

**Day Four. The Inn. Morning. The Bedchamber.**

From his position at the back of the room, his hands tucked firmly beneath his armpits in an echo of his younger self, d’Artagnan looked on, somewhat dispassionately as a thick canvas was spread across the floor, since he was not entirely sure of its purpose. Then he watched as the Innkeeper and his son brought up a long wooden bench and placed it on top of the canvas.

_Oh no, dear God, no._

The wave of thin, acrid, bile, rose up and overtook him without warning, so that he found himself bent double, ganging and spitting where he stood, straight onto the wooden floorboards.

“Easy son,” Treville’s voice was suddenly in his ear, as one hand rested between his shoulder blades and another caught him under the elbow, holding him steady. “Thank you, Aramis.”

A large bowl suddenly appeared in his field of vision, in time to catch the worst of his emissions, swiftly followed by a cup of water to rise out his mouth. D’Artagnan knew he should probably feel mortified as Treville used a damp cloth to wipe his face, but the man did it with such a fatherly touch, and he already felt so utterly wretched, that it was difficult to care.

“Better now?” Aramis’ voice asked kindly.

Carefully straightening up, d’Artagnan nodded weakly. As Treville helped him over to a chair he noticed gratefully that Athos was engaged in a soft conversation with Porthos, his eye lids already drooping and had not witnessed his shameful loss of control. Automatically, he drank down the tot of brandy that was pressed into his hand by Aramis, letting its soft warmth settle his stomach. 

“I’m sorry.” He apologized, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the floor, not wanting to see the look in these men's eyes at his weakness.

“Don’t be,” Aramis’ tone was all sympathy, as he rested a gentle hand between d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades. “We’ve all been through this before with comrades in battle. We should have thought to warn you what to expect.”

“No, it was stupid of me,” d’Artagnan shook his head. A feather bed with its soft, yielding, comfort, was no suitable place for surgery. He was a farmer’s son. He had seen enough pigs butchered on just such a bench to know that the hard surface would make the procedure faster and so less painful. “I’ll be alright now.”

“You don’t have to be,” Treville crouched down in front of him, so he could look d’Artagnan in the eye. “It’s no easy thing to witness an amputation. Even for a seasoned soldier.  Especially, when it’s someone you love as well as you love Athos. No one will judge you if you choose to step out.”

“No,” D’Artagnan shook his head stubbornly, sitting up a little straighter. “No. We are brothers. We draw our strength from each other. I will not leave Athos to endure this alone, because I am too much of a coward to watch.”

“No one is ever going to accuse you of that lad,” Treville assured him. “And Athos wouldn’t want you to tear yourself apart for his sake. You know he’d do whatever he could to keep you from harm.”

“I know. I’ll be fine. I promise. I just wish I could do something to take this pain from him.” D’Artagnan admitted.

“We know,” Treville shared a look with Aramis. “We feel the same way.”

To everyone’s relief M. Martain was every bit as skilled as his reputation suggested. He first fixed a tourniquet to Athos’ upper arm that used a screw mechanism to place pressure on the veins and inhibit blood flow.

From the impressed, look which passed between Porthos and Aramis d’Artagnan realized this wasn’t usual practice. 

To the Gascon’s considerable surprise the time from the moment the saw touched Athos’ skin to the successful conclusion of the operation took no more than fifteen seconds. From somewhere Aramis had secured a vial of milk of the poppy to ensure that Athos was largely unaware of proceedings.

They were still the longest fifteen seconds of d’Artagnan’s life

And he would take the sound of Athos’ single agonized cry to his grave.

After the wound had been thoroughly cleaned and flushed out with brandy, there was a familiar comfort in watching Aramis narrow his eyes and press his lips together as he threaded his needle. Sat on the edge of the bed he used, neat, careful, stitches to close up the gaping wound, each and every one speaking of his deep and abiding love for his wounded brother.

Finally, the damaged arm was carefully wrapped in soft, linen, bandages and neatly tied off with a small bow.

**Day Four. The Inn. Morning. The Courtyard.**

Aramis had taken it upon himself to dispose of the severed limb, not wanting to entrust that sad duty to a stranger. Nor wishing Porthos to have to shift out from where he was still cradling Athos in his arms or have d’Artagnan face the grisly duty. Still, Treville knew how hard it would be for Aramis to consign part of his brother to the flames. So he had decided to come down and personally see to the setting the of small fire in the courtyard they would also be using to dispose of the soiled linens, in order to be there to offer his strength and support.

Except Aramis did not come.

Fearing the worst, Treville waited with his heart in his mouth, repeatedly telling himself that one of them _would_ have sent word if Athos has died. He knew they would not be so cruel, even in their own grief, as to leave him to this lonely vigil, doing nothing but waiting and worrying.

Finally, d’Artagnan appeared, carrying a large tub, filled with soiled bed linens and cloths, which he swiftly consigned to the flames, before offering Treville a wan smile.

“He’s sleeping now. It’s the best thing for him, Aramis says.”

Treville embraced the young man firmly, holding him tightly for a long moment. When d’Artagnan finally pulled back his face was pale and his eyes damp, but he seemed steadier.

“Where’s Aramis?” Treville wondered.

“He didn’t come this way?” d’Artagnan frowned. “He left some time ago.”

“He took the limb?” Treville did not like the sound of this.

“Wrapped it up in a blanket like a sleeping babe and carried it off as tenderly as if it was a living thing.” D’Artagnan frowned. “He’s been gone long enough ago for us to clean up the room. The best part of an hour at least.”

The two men looked at each other, both unhappy at this turn of events.

“I suppose he could have gone out the front way?” D’Artagnan offered doubtfully.

Treville frowned. That made no sense. Aramis would only have had to double back around to reach the courtyard and, even so, he should have been here before now. And there was nothing out the front of the Inn except a few houses and the village Church.

Oh.

“Let’s go back upstairs,” Treville turned d’Artagnan around. “I’m sure Aramis will be along shortly.”

In the bedchamber everything had been cleaned and cleared away. In the far corner M. Martain and his assistant were just packing away the last of their equipment. On the bed Athos was sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. The neatly bandaged stump of his arm resting lightly on top of the bedding causing Treville’s breath to catch in his throat for a moment.

"Where’s Aramis got to?” Porthos frowned, as only the two of them came through the door.

“Here he is.” D’Artagnan announced, as a familiar tread was heard on the stairs.

Aramis ducked into the room, the way his hair sticking up in wild tufts, and the bright pink of his complexion, suggesting he had been outside for some time. As he crossed the threshold he looked slightly startled to be subjected to three sets of eyes scrutinizing him so intently.

 No-one missed the fact that his eyes were red-rimmed and his arms empty of their precious burden.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked gently. “The Minister was waiting for you in the courtyard.”

“I buried it,” Aramis admitted, not looking any of them in the eye. He found a spot on the wall that was apparently particularly interesting. “I went over to the Churchyard and I buried it in the graveyard.”

“Ah, _hell._ ”

Porthos' eyes were damp with tears at the idea of their brother baulking at the idea of casting part of Athos, like so much refuse, into the fire, and instead carefully carrying the severed arm across to hallowed ground, laying it down gently on the frozen earth, as he set too digging a small hole with his parrying dagger and saying a blessing as he covered it with a blanket of soft, fresh, loam.

"I couldn’t just throw it away, I just couldn’t” Aramis sought to explain. That hand, with its long, elegant fingers and neat, square cut nails, had saved his life countless times with its prowess with a sword, it had soothed away his nightmares, mopped his brow when he was sick, released him from shackles, cuffed him with fond exasperation and squeezed his shoulder imparting support and love at some of his lowest moments. “It was Athos. It was part of him.”

“We know,” d’Artagnan stepped forward, to embrace Aramis, patting him firmly on the back. “We understand that. We just wish you hadn’t had to do it alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis insistently looked contrite. He hadn’t known what he was going to do until his feet had taken on a mind of their own and he had found himself in the peaceful little cemetery. “I should have told you all. You had a right to be there.”

“Eh, now don’t take on so,” Porthos said gruffly. “It’s not like it was his actual funeral. Athos is still right here with us.”

“How is he doing?” Treville needed to know.

“He’s fighting, same as he always does,” Porthos affirmed stoutly. “A good sleep, a decent feed, a tot or two of brandy and he’ll be right as rain.”

They all knew that it wouldn’t be that simple. But the thought of it gave them all a little comfort.

“Gentlemen,” M. Martain approached, looking tired but satisfied. “Everything went as went as could be expected. The wound is neat and clean. Keep it free from infection, ensure that your Captain does not over exert himself, build up his strength gradually with good food and moderate exercise and I have no doubt he will make an excellent recovery.”

“Thank you, Monsieur, for all you have done.” Treville shook his hand firmly.

“We are more grateful than words can express,” Aramis spoke for all of them. “If we can ever be of service Monsieur, we stand in your debt.”

“Look after your Captain, that is the only thanks I require. He is a brave man and truly deserving of your loyalty,” M. Martain smiled. “Although, when he returns to Paris you might remind him of his promise to teach me chess. It would be my honour and privilege to be count such a remarkable individual among my friends.”

“Athos is a man of his word,” d’Artagnan assured the surgeon with a smile. “He won’t need reminding.”

“He should not wake for some time. I suggest you get some rest,” M. Martain favoured them all with a knowing smile. “He will need your support when he wakes and you will be no good to him if you have all worn yourselves out simply watching him sleep.”

“You heard the man,” Treville took charge. “You gents get some rest. I’ll take the first watch.”

He was immediately met with three anxious expressions.

“I’ll wake you if there is any change,” He reassured them. “But there’s still a long road ahead. We’re all going to need to be patient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1718, French surgeon Jean Louis Petit (1674-1750) developed a tourniquet to stop bleeding during an amputation. Petit's tourniquet is considered by many sources to be one of the "most important surgical advancements before the advent of anaesthesia." As M. Martain is supposed to be the best in his field I’ve taken the liberty of bending history a little. Even with the Petit tourniquet to stop bleeding, quick amputations were desirable to spare patients prolonged agony. Speed became a source of pride for early surgeons. French surgeon Jacques Lisfranc became known for his ability to amputate at the thigh in 10 seconds. Although other amputations, such as at the shoulder joint, may have taken longer. Closing wounds with sutures was not a standard practice but since the accepted method generally left the wound open and dangerously vulnerable to infection and we have seen Aramis use stitches on the show I have allowed him to spare Athos the agony of dangerous alternatives such as cauterization.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The pain is tolerable,” Athos lied. “And I have another arm.”

**Day Five. The Inn. Afternoon.**

They had each of them sat an anxious watch by Athos' bedside before a weak cough from the patient heralded his return to consciousness. Aramis immediately set aside the bible he had been reading to place a soothing hand on his brother’s brow. 

“Easy, Athos,” His tone was low and gentle. “Easy now, it’s alright. You’re alright.”

“’Mis?” Athos’ voice was slurred. “I rather thought to find myself in the depths of hell  ..”

“You’re not dead, mon frère, you survived,” Aramis soothed. “Your body will be weak for a while a yet. But M. Martain was as good as his word, the cut was clean and I stitched the wound myself,” Athos’ eyes went liquid soft at that his expression so open and trusting that Aramis wished he could hold it in his mind forever. He smoothed a gentle hand across his wayward curls. “Now the Regiment can still have its Captain and we can still stand as brothers together.”

Athos didn’t respond to that, instead he bit his lip and let his eyes drift down to where the stump of his arm lay neatly on top of the blankets. His brow creased into a frown of concentration and then a grimace of pain chased across his features but the limb did not move.

“ _Athos_.”

Aramis waited until Athos met his gaze. As he had expected, his brother’s eyes were clouded with pain and worry. Reaching out he picked up Athos’ good hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a light kiss across the knuckles.

“You still have another arm, mon cher.”

“I suppose that will have to suffice.” Athos sighed.

He pressed his lips together, letting his eyes slide to half mast, wordlessly telegraphing his doubt and fear to anyone who knew and loved him, before turning his head to one side in a clear tactic to hide his turbulent emotions from Aramis all too knowing gaze.

Only to have his expression noticeably soften when he saw Porthos, stripped to shirt and breeches, asleep in one of the chairs, tipped precariously onto its back two legs, his stocking feet propped up on the ornate table, and his brow furrowed slightly as he snored softly. Still fully dressed d’Artagnan had somehow curled his length up into the window seat, his face looking pale and drawn even in sleep.

Across the room, through the open door, he glimpsed Treville’s well-worn boots, as the man slept apparently fully clothed, on the chaise lounge.

“They all took a turn watching over you.” Aramis told him.

Treville had sat leafing through correspondence and dispatches, reminding Athos of the character of this General or that Ambassador, asking his advice, as if the sleeping man could hear his every word. In its own way it had been a reassurance to them all that Athos was still the consummate leader and brilliant tactician they had all come to rely on.

Porthos had held fast onto Athos’ good hand as if it was a tether to hold him on this earth, quietly reminiscing about the good times, battles won, jokes shared, moments of high emotion and quiet companionship, all those bonds which tied their brotherhood together, reminding Athos and them all that amidst the pain there was still reason for joy.

D’Artagnan had read to him from one of his favourite treatise on warfare. His lips moving carefully as his provincial Latin stumbled over some of the words or phrases. Each time he faltered, his eyes would lift from the page and look expectantly towards Athos lying unmoving on the bed, his disappointment palpable on every occasion that his mentor failed to stir to life to correct his grammar.

“Did you sleep at all?” Athos raised a brow.

“I prayed,” Aramis managed a forced smile, even as his eyes slid away. “Like Porthos it was not in me to abandon you in your hour of need.”

Athos realized with a sudden start of humility that his brother had taken it upon himself to keep watch on his immortal soul, refusing to seek his own rest in fear of the very real possibility that Athos might slip away from them without the benefit of unction or blessing. Aramis might not be a priest but the last rites were a mercy Athos had seen him extend to so many poor, deserving, souls over the years.

“You should know,” Aramis continued. “D’Artagnan was sick to his stomach with fear of what you had to endure. But he refused Treville’s offer to allow him to step out and he held your hand through every last moment of the procedure. Then afterwards he set to and cleared away every grisly sign and took it out to be burnt and not a word said about it. Even though, he couldn’t hide the tears in his eyes.”

“He has never lacked courage.” Athos allowed, his tone so soft and fond that no-one could mistake the depth of his love for the younger man. “Even when his heart was breaking when his father died or Constance spurned him, he still found the heart and courage within himself to act like a true Musketeer.”

“And he loves you with all his heart and soul,” Aramis reminded. “He always has, ever since you showed an angry, grieving, child, kindness and mercy.”

“Ath.” A familiar voice exclaimed.

The bones in Porthos’ back cracked loudly as he stretched, then the chair legs thudded to the floor as he sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face before rising to his feet and crossing over to the bed.

With a fond smile, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Athos’ ear.

“Right then, food or a bit of a wash up first?” He got straight to the point.

“Wash,” Athos decided. “I need to use the chamber pot.”

Aramis swiftly plucked the required receptacle from under the bed, Porthos helped Athos shuffle to the edge of the mattress and supported him while he stood with a wry smile. They each had too many memories of doing this for each other when they were sick or injured for an of them to feel the least bit of embarrassment.

“Oh, damn it all.” Athos’ face suddenly screwed up with irritation.

“Ah,” Aramis saw the problem. Athos’ shirt hung right down to mid-thigh and he didn’t have a free hand to hitch it up, out of the way of the business in hand. “I suppose you could always straddle the pot?”

Athos’ look showed exactly what he thought of that suggestion. He frowned in thought.

“Maybe, I can ..”

Using his good hand Athos gathered up the fabric of his nightshirt and tucked it between his stump and his torso, leaving his other hand free to ensure that his aim was straight and true.

This small victory over adversity had them all grinning at each other like school boys.

As Porthos settled Athos back into the bed Aramis went off and rounded up a ewer of hot water, a large bowl, a soft cloth and some soap. Whistling softly as he put the items down beside the bed, he made a short detour to his saddle bags to retrieve his razor.

Athos took one look at the open blade and went a sickly shade of green.

“’Ah, Mis.” Porthos frowned.

“My dear Athos, my deepest apologies,” Aramis swiftly closed the blade and slide it out of sight into his pocket, mortified that he had been the cause of his brother’s distress. “I only wished to make you feel more comfortable.”

Aramis tried hard to hide his dismay at this unexpected turn of events. Tending to his friends’ hair and beards had always provided a special sort of comfort. The chance to perform such an intimate service, moving them into position with gentle touches, sweeping off the soap with an infinitely careful hand had always given both parties much needed consolation.

“Perhaps you could use scissors?” Athos suggested.

“Are you sure that wouldn’t distress you?” Aramis asked hopefully. “I swear I’ll be careful.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Athos allowed with a tired smile. “Besides, it might be wise to start wearing it a little shorter. A neater cut would be easier to manage.”

Between them, they set about making Athos clean and presentable, pushing the small crises to the backs of their minds as they conversed with the ease of men who were well accustomed to spending a great deal of time in each other’s company. During the process Porthos handed Athos a soapy cloth so he could wipe down his own neck and face.

Only to have Athos become completely still.

“Captain?” Porthos prompted.

“How exactly am I supposed to wash this?” Athos asked hollowly, looking at his good arm and the hand at its end holding the cloth.

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other in consternation. Neither of them could think of a way Athos might manage to wash up and done his good arm and clean the front and back of his hand all by himself.

“Well, I suppose you could always rinse it off,” Porthos offered, after some thought. “All you’d need is a bit of running water.”

“You would have me strip off my shirt and stand under the pump for my morning ablutions, in full view of the entire regiment?” Athos raised a sceptical brow.

Aramis felt his stomach twist in sympathy. Athos had always been a modest man. Since he and Porthos held no such inhibitions they had always found Athos’ shyness about his body rather endearing. He had gradually come to trust them, and now d’Artagnan, enough for it not to matter, but those outside their intimate circle were a different matter.  

“Course not,” Porthos retorted robustly. “But I reckon we could mount a jug on the wall, with some kind of lever that you could attach a chain to which should work well enough.”

“Porthos, that’s simply brilliant.” Aramis said admiringly.

“It’s just an idea,” Porthos shrugged, a bit concerned by Athos’ continued silence. “I reckon if we speak to Marcus, when we get back to the Garrison, being a Blacksmith and all he’ll probably know better how these kind of mechanisms work.”

“Athos, mon Coeur,” Aramis abruptly sat down on the bed, his face creased with concern, as he tried to catch Athos’ eye. “What is it?”

With a lurch of horror Porthos realized that Athos was crying. Much worst it seemed that _he_ had made Athos cry.

“Ah hell, Ath,” His hands clenched into helpless fists. “You’re ripping my heart out here. It was just an idea. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Porthos, no!” Athos raised his tear stained face to look at his brother, reaching out his good hand to clasp Porthos’ arm. “I’m not offended. I simply cannot believe the lengths that you will go to merely for my sake.”

“Eh now, there’s no merely about it,” Porthos sat on Athos other side and used his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. “We’re brothers. We watch out for each other. Your pain is my pain. There ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do to ease your way. Same as you’d do for me. And have, more times than I can count.”

“It’s always been my privilege to care for those I love,” Athos assured him. “And I can think of none more deserving than the three of you.”

“So, why is it so hard for you to accept that we feel the same way?” Aramis pressed gently.

“Perhaps because I cannot recall a single time Thomas did something simply because it was what _I_ needed.” Athos unexpectedly admitted.

There was a moment of complete silence.

“Then he was a shite brother and you deserved better.”  Porthos said bluntly.

“Now then Porthos, it’s a sin to speak ill of the dead,” Aramis chided. “Although, just because you were the eldest is no reason that every burden should have fallen on your shoulders. Just look at d’Artagnan, he is never prouder than when he can be the support you need.”

“Yes,” Athos smiled fondly at the thought of the younger man’s fiercely protective streak. “I had noticed.”

“Athos. Thank God.”

As if he had heard them speaking of him, d’Artagnan practically tumbled out of the window seat as he awoke and scrambled to reach his Captain’s bedside, relief writ large across his features to find him still among the land of the living. With a soft smile, he cupped a hand around Athos’ head and pressed a kiss to his brow.

“Are you alright?” His eyes inescapably drawn to the neatly bandaged stump. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

“The pain is tolerable,” Athos lied. “And I have another arm.”

The tension that had been evident in d’Artagnan’s shoulders visibly eased at Athos’ reassuring words and his smile became a little steadier.    

“Do you need anything?” He asked solicitously.

 Behind his back Porthos rocked back on his heel with a satisfied smirk at a point well-made. Athos refrained from rolling his eyes, knowing that it would confuse and distress his youngest brother.

“Wine?” He said instead, deadpan.

“Absolutely not, Aramis cut in. “You lost a good deal of blood. Your body needs liquid to balance your humors,”

“Wine is liquid.”

“Indeed it is,” Aramis allowed. “And if you can keep down three cups of water fresh from the well _and_ manage some breakfast you can have some watered wine later.”

“I never thought the day would come when I would look forward to watered wine,” Athos grumbled. Porthos was both impressed and a little concerned, at the lengths Athos was going to in order to reassure his protégé that he was coping with his infirmity. “As your Captain I could just order you to bring me a cask of the finest Burgundy?”

“You could indeed,” Aramis allowed, with a fond smirk. “But you know how much I hate following orders.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Such ignorance of modern medicine is only to be expected from men accustomed to the butchery of the battlefield, I suppose,” de Paul said loftily. “I shall not need to disturb him. Merely a small cut on his arm to let the blood flow. A cup or two should suffice in the first instance.”
> 
> “Over my dead body,” Porthos muttered dangerously. “A small cut on his arm is how all this business started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time will now start to skip forward occasionally so Athos can begin the road to recovery.

**Day Eight. The Inn. Mid-afternoon.**

“It’s healing well.” D’Artagnan sounded relieved. “There’s no sign of infection.”

“Mmm.”

Aramis hummed his agreement, but did not look up from his labours, intent on getting this over with as quickly as possible. He’d hoped to have Porthos’ assistance in the business of cleaning out Athos’ wound and applying fresh bandages, but the other man had been called away to keep up the men’s skills in hand to hand. Still d’Artagnan was bearing up well, having kicked off his boots so he could climb onto the bed beside his mentor and brace Athos with a brotherly arm around his shoulders.

White faced, with one fist clenched tight in the bedclothes, Athos was doing his best to bear the proceedings stoically, but the effort it was costing him was all too evident in the beads of cold sweat standing out in sharp relief on his brow.

“Athos.” D’Artagnan said quietly, with so much _love_ in his voice that Aramis briefly looked up from his work.

The younger man had turned slightly, pulling his Captain in close to his chest, one hand cupping the back of his neck, as he fed the edge of his jacket into Athos’ mouth so he could bite down on the leather. Wrapping both arms around him, he rested his chin lightly on the top of his curls, holding him tight, as tears of agony leaked out under his mentor's eyelids.

“How much longer?” d’Artagnan asked.

“A few more moments,” Aramis hated to put either man through such pain but he knew being thorough was vital to Athos’ recovery. “I’m sorry, I have to make sure it’s completely clean.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I taught a cow to jump over fences?” d’Artagnan murmured. Without waiting for a response to such an extraordinary statement he continued. “I’d always had a way with horses. My father said I was riding around the stable yard with him leading my pony as before I could walk. One day I got a little above myself and boasted to one of the farm hands that there wasn’t a beast on the farm I couldn’t ride. I’d meant horses, of course, but he took me at my word and presented me with one of the milk herd, saddled and bridled.”

“You held that in a long time,” Aramis observed, as he continued to work. “Why are we just hearing about this now?”

He knew exactly why, of course. As tales went it was certainly outrageous enough to distract Athos from his present agony and, as fiercely proud as d’Artagnan was, he would gladly paint himself the fool if it would ease his mentor’s pain even a fraction.

“It took weeks of patient schooling,” d’Artagnan recalled. “Just getting her to accept me on her back was a challenge in itself. But she was surprisingly eager once I put her to the fences. The men couldn’t believe their eyes. Although, I won’t be recommending to Treville that he replace our horses any time soon. Her back was nothing but bone.”

“I hope you laid a wager or two,” Aramis offered around a smile as he kept focused on the task in hand. “Such a feat deserves more recompense than polite applause.”

“I’m ashamed to say it never occurred me, but then I hadn’t met Porthos yet,” d’Artagnan shifted slightly, sounding a little bashful, a side only those who truly loved the brash young man ever got to see. “And .. well, I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t end up just embarrassing myself.”

“I would bet on you .. every time,” Athos managed, his voice raspy with pain.

Well, Aramis couldn’t help but look up at d’Artagnan after _that_.

His eyes had gone large and liquid soft, there were two spots of high colour in his cheeks. He looked like he was having difficulty forming words. Aramis smiled kindly. He and Porthos knew exactly how high they stood in Athos’ estimation. The lad was still learning, making the occasional mistake, so that their fearless leaders’ rare words of overt praise were utterly treasured.     

“Indeed,” Aramis added his quiet support. “It is not in you to back down from a challenge and perseverance is often to key to success.”

“When we were small Thomas and I tried .. riding the sheep that grazed our lands,” Athos paused as took a breath, the sound rattling in his chest. “I believe .. we enjoyed it more than the sheep.”

Athos was stark white and breathing heavily by the time Aramis was finally done. He swiftly tidied up the soiled cloths and bandages and put them outside the door to take downstairs to be burned in the kitchen fire. Then he made his way over to the table and poured out a glass of decent merlot, before coming back to the bed and passing the glass over to d’Artagnan.

The younger man nodded in acknowledgement of the trust Aramis had placed in him. He put the glass gently to Athos’ lips and murmured soft encouragements as he coaxed him to drink.

The alcohol restored much of Athos’ colour and, after a second glass, he came back to himself sufficiently to sit up straight, Aramis briskly plumping up the numerous feather pillows and easing them behind his back so he could rest more comfortably.

“Will you take a little soup?”

“Actually,” Athos looked at him hopefully. “Is there any cheese?”

Aramis’ answering smile lit up his whole face, this was the first sign that the fever was receeding and Athos’ appetite was returning to normal.

“Of course.” He touched his brother’s shoulder lightly. “Let me go and see what I can find.”

Downstairs in the kitchen the Inn’s kindly cook was delighted to hear that the brave Captain of the King’s Musketeers was well enough to be asking for food. She quite outdid herself, proudly putting together a platter of brie, goats cheese, Roquefort and a local soft cheese threaded through with finely chopped sage, soft fresh bread and crisp crackers baked a golden brown, served with farm fresh butter and a rich tomato chutney made to her grandmother’s recipe, together with a fine vintage port.

She brushed off Aramis’ fulsome thanks with a motherly smile and refused to accept a single sous for the meal.

“It’s little enough thanks in return for your Captain’s courage in the name of France.”

Aramis gave her a courtly bow worthy of a duchess. He watched with quiet pleasure as Athos ate a little of everything. D’Artagnan stretched out on his stomach beside him, demolishing most of the Roquefort all by himself, the lines of worry on his brow finally smoothing out, as he answered Athos’ questions about the situation on the border and the rotation of the men on patrol.. 

“Shall we return to our study of Retanus’ treatise on warfare?” Athos asked when they were finally done with the meal.

D’Artagnan’s face lit up with pleasure.

“I’ll fetch it.”

He immediately scrambled up to retrieve the book from his saddlebags, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness.

Aramis gave Athos a soft look of approval. They both knew the Gascon had ached for some time alone with his mentor, ever since they had been released from captivity. But he tended to shy away from overt sympathy. Being the consummate leader he was Athos had recognized that continuing his studies would provide the perfect excuse to give the younger man what he needed without bringing attention to it.

He watched with quiet satisfaction as the two dark heads bent together over the Latin text, something finally easing in his own chest as he saw his two missing brothers safe, together, and finally out of danger. D’Artagnan’s lips moved slowly as he carefully sounded out the words, breaking off occasionally to discuss the merits and disadvantages of a particular tactic.

Deciding he could be more useful elsewhere Aramis buckled on his weapons belt, stowed his pistols, placed his hat firmly on his head and quietly slipped out of the room without either man noticing and made his way downstairs. So intent was he on making his way to the stables that he did not notice the figure blocking his path until they had almost collided.

“You off somewhere?” Porthos asked, taking in his attire.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, his jacket was slung over one shoulder, as he practically glowed with the aftermath of a morning’s work landing his fellow musketeers in the dirt. Although the small furrow which seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his brow since Athos’ was injured was still very much in evidence.

“D’Artagnan is reading to Athos so I thought I might go and exercise the horses. Perhaps you would care to join me?” He raised a teasing brow. "Unless you are too tired from your exertions?"

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help with the wound and all,” Porthos looked guilty. “Did things go alright?”

“Better than alright,” Aramis reassured him. “D’Artaganan bore up admirably. There is no sign of infection and Athos ate a good lunch.”

“That’s good, that’s real good,” Porthos beamed. “A good feed will set Athos right up.”  

“What do you think that is all about?” Aramis frowned as he craned to see.

“Huh?”

Turning to follow his brother's gaze, through the window Porthos saw an ornate carriage, its elaborately carved decoration and lavish gilding looking totally out of place in such a small, provincial, village, come trundling down the main street.

 “I don’t know,” Porthos felt a curl of disquiet in his stomach as the carriage drew up outside. “But its stopping here.”

As the two Musketeers emerged into the village square the coachman came around to open the door. A small, fat, man in an expensive dark blue cloak and black leather shoes with large gold buckles stepped out with a distinct air of self-importance.

“Can we be of assistance, Monsieur?” Aramis asked politely.

His keen eye for such things noted that the expensive cloak was rather too long in the sleeve, suggesting that this man was not its original owner. Furthermore, the good quality woollen garment was being used to cover up far rather more utilitarian clothing underneath and the shoes were of a style that had been in fashion at court some three or four years previously.

Also, the coachman wore a plain livery, which suggested the carriage was hired rather than their visitor’s personal conveyance.

“My name is Charles de Paul,” The man announced himself. “You will have heard of me, of course.”

Porthos gave a soft snort. In his opinion anyone who expected you to know who they were generally weren’t worth knowing.

The man narrowed his eyes.

“I am afraid you have us at a disadvantage, Monsiuer,” Aramis put in cordially, with a small bow. “But then we are just recently arrived in the region.”

“I am the physician for these parts. I have come to attend on the patient residing at this Inn.”

“Athos?” Porthos baulked at the very idea.“By whose orders?”

Athos would be mortified at being exposed to this pompous little man’s poking and prodding. Before he had even thought about it, he had stepped forward, physically blocking the way and causing de Paul to take a step back, even as he bristled with indignation.

“Word reached me that a surgeon was summoned from Paris, to treat one of the King’s most valued subjects,” de Paul protested. “Given my expertise in these matters it was remiss of you not to send for me at once. I attend upon all those of quality in this region.”

“The King’s own surgeon was sent with his Majesty’s compliments,” Aramis acknowledged with more patience that Porthos would have been able to muster. “But he has since returned to the Palace.”

“The King himself sent his own man?” de Paul’s eyes lit up. “Then this nobleman must be exceptionally high in his Majesty’s estimation.”

“He is,” Porthos acknowledged. He slid a sly glance at Aramis. “First name terms and all.” 

Aramis resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Granted Louis now knew all of the Inseparables by name. Although, there was only one occasion when Athos had called his Monarch by name, during their ill-fated foray into the taverns and backstreets of Paris, which had ended with the kidnap of both the King and d’Artagnan, and all the trouble that followed.

Although, Aramis did have a particularly fond memory of the way Athos’ quick reflexes had caught Louis, who was rather the worse for drink, by the collar and unceremoniously hauled him back upright just before he fell face first into his dinner. Rolling his eyes, more like an exasperated older brother charged by his parents with looking after a wayward younger sibling, than a subject with his King.

“If you will kindly conduct me to the patient,” de Paul’s voice cut in on his memories. “I will be able to see for myself what further treatment is required.”

“Thank you,” Aramis’ tone was a polite dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless. “But I have the situation well in hand.”

“You?” de Paul looked him up and down with disdain. “A common soldier is attending on one of the King’s most favoured courtiers?”

“A King’s Musketeer,” Aramis stressed. “Is attending on the Captain of the Regiment, whose valour has made him a particular favourite of his Majesty.”

“Oh, I was led to believe he was someone of import,” de Paul’s face fell. But then he rallied. “Still, if he holds the King’s favour the least I can do is look in him. And you will, of course, inform his Majesty of my loyal service. I believe he has had an arm amputated? No doubt he will benefit from the letting of some blood.”

”He” has a name _and_ a rank,” Porthos bristled at the man’s tone. “And _Captain_ Athos is busy just now. He doesn’t need to be disturbed by someone trying to sap what strength remains in his body.”

“Such ignorance of modern medicine is only to be expected from men accustomed to the butchery of the battlefield, I suppose,” de Paul said loftily. “I shall not need to disturb him. Merely a small cut on his arm to let the blood flow. A cup or two should suffice in the first instance.”

“Over my dead body,” Porthos muttered dangerously. “A small cut on his arm is how all this business started.”

“On the battlefield we do everything we can to keep blood inside the wounded,” Aramis argued. “We put pressure on the wound to staunch the flow, we use needlework to close the gnash, everything I have seen proves that the body is all the stronger for it.”

“You dare lecture me! I am a trained physician,” de Paul puffed himself up. “I have studied at some of the very best Universities. How dare you presume to know better than me! I demand you let me past.”

“Yeah?” Porthos raised a single finger and poked de Paul in the chest. The man let out a most undignified squeak at this assault on his person. “Your sort of care,” Porthos punctuated his words with repeated jabs of his finger herding de Paul back towards the carriage, “ain’t needed here,” jab, “so I suggest you” jab “gather up your s _econd hand_ cloak and get your backside,” jab “into that fancy _rented_ carriage of yours,” jab “and go back to where you came from.”

“How dare you!”

De Paul turned puce, although whether at the insult, or the recognition that his ‘wealth’ was actually all show, Aramis wasn’t quite sure and genuinely didn’t care. Leaning into Porthos he lazily drew his musket from his weapons belt and pointed it, unerringly, at de Paul’s head, watching with no small satisfaction how the all the colour drained from his face.

“You lay one finger on our Captain and I _will_ shoot you.”

Judging by the way de Paul’s eyes widened the threat was all the more effective for having been delivered in such a conversational tone.

“Is there a problem here, gents?” Treville’s voice enquired mildly.

De Paul swiftly rallied, perhaps seeing in Treville’s fine embroidered blue and brown cloak, and badge of ministerial rank, a high ranking ally against these common soldiers.

“This ruffian here laid hands upon me.” He pointed at Porthos. “And that one,” He pointed a visibly shaking hand at Aramis. “Just threatened to shoot me.”

“It’s not actually loaded,” Aramis shrugged lightly at Treville’s enquiring look, completely ignoring de Paul’s indignant sounds. “Although, to be fair he didn’t know that.”

“He wanted to let Athos’ blood,” Porthos objected, clearly still itching for a fight. “And Aramis and I are both of a mind that he’s lost more than enough of that to be going on with.”

“Rest assured the King shall hear of this offence upon my person,” de Paul declared with self-righteous indignation, his courage clearly bolstered by the belief that the presence of a man of Treville’s standing would protect him from any repercussions. “I am sure he would be most displeased to know that his Musketeers have behaved in such an _utterly_ disreputable manner.”

“These men are loyal servants of France, Monsieur,” Treville spoke sharply, causing de Paul blink in surprise. “They have fought and bled for their country and their Monarch. His Majesty is intimately acquainted with both of them. Porthos here is the son of a Baron. And just the other week Aramis was personally conducted into the order of St Michael by the King for rescuing him from certain death.”

“Well, I am sure that’s all very admirable,” de Paul said a little stiffly, looking suitably flustered by these revelations. “But how was I to know they were worthy of respect?”

“They wear the insigna of your King,” Treville pointed out icily. “That alone should suffice. Now, I trust that you will be on your way. I am sure a _gentlemen_ of your standing has more pressing matters to occupy your time.”

His tone brooked no argument.

“As you wish,” de Pont agreed, a little sulkily. Then his expression took on a calculating edge. “Although, I have been put to considerable trouble and inconvenience to come here and now I find my services are not required. I am sure his Majesty would expect me to be recompensed.”

“No-one asked you to come.” Porthos grumbled.

“Now then, my dear Porthos,” Aramis chided mildly. “The carriage alone would have cost him dear.” A beat. “Even if his attire clearly did not.”

“Here,” Treville plucked a few coins from his purse, before matters could get out of hand. “I will be sure to tell the King of your loyal service.”

From de Paul’s expression the meagre payment was in itself something of an insult, no doubt exactly as Treville had intended, but one glance at the Minister’s stony expression was enough to still his tongue.

The three men watched in silence as he reluctantly climbed back in and the carriage bore him away.

“I’ve had word back from the King.” Treville informed them.

Aramis sighed. They had been afraid of this.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that his Majesty could forego your presence for much longer.”

“I’m not leaving,” Treville surprised them. “I could not in good conscience leave any of you to bear this burden alone. Otherwise our motto of all for one would seem nothing more than hollow words. I will be staying until Athos is fit to return to Paris.”

“How did you manage to wangle that then?” Porthos grinned.

“I convinced his Majesty that it would be prudent to have a company of Musketeers patrolling the boarder with Spain in case of any further insurgence and that as his Minister of War I should personally see to putting those arrangements in place.”

“If I may say so, that is a stroke of brilliance, Minister,” Aramis gave a small bow of respect. “Your continued presence will be a great boon to our noble Captain’s recovery.”

“How is Athos today?”

“D’Artagnan is reading to him,” Aramis’ lips quirked. “In Latin. Retanus’ treatise on warfare. Apparently Athos does not feel his indisposition is sufficient excuse to neglect our young Gascon’s education.”

“His pronunciation does need work.” Treville smirked.

The Minister well remembered d’Artagnan’s dismay when Athos had first insisted that he should study the art of warfare, the young man’s temperament being far more inclined to action than book learning. However, it had soon become a common sight to see d’Artagnan and Athos seated in some corner of the Garrison, reading some book or other that Athos’ thought would spark his protégé’s interest, as the younger man read haltingly, frequently stopping to ask questions of his mentor, Athos’ face graced with a fond, proud, smile at his progress.

 “So, where were you two off to?” Treville enquired.

Porthos and Aramis glanced at each other in a moment of silent communication.

“We were planning on taking the horses out for a gallop,” Porthos tipped his head on one side. “If his Majesty’s Minister of War hasn’t risen above such things, another pair of hands wouldn’t go amiss.”

Treville grinned tightly. The day was cold was but bright. The ground would be firm and dry underfoot and horses keen to have their heads after spending the past couple of days eating their heads off in the stable. It held far more appeal than the paperwork which awaited him. And he could not deny he was pleased to be asked.

“Lead on, gents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna the show jumping cow really does exist. As do the small New Zealand boys who tried riding the family sheep. Google them if you don't believe me.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Things will get better Athos,” Aramis assured him earnestly. “You just need to be a slightly more patient, patient. Before you know it you will be returning to Paris, riding through the gates of the Garrison at the head of your men, as the Captain of the Regiment should.”
> 
> Athos thought about that prospect for a moment.
> 
> “I’m going to need a new hat to replace that felt monstrosity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is quite a long chapter .. moving things along.

**Day Ten. The Inn. Courtyard. Morning.**

“Good Morning, Minister.”

Treville felt the grin spreading across his face even as he let the axe fall to split the waiting log. The self-imposed task being a small gesture of thanks to the Innkeeper for allowing them to turn his establishment into a temporary garrison. Using the crook of his elbow to wipe the sweat from his brow he carefully straightened up.

“Athos. It’s good to see you up and about.”

His pleasure at seeing his Captain strong enough to be outside, warred with his concern at just how pale he looked in the bright winter sunshine. He was leaning heavily on Aramis and did not even attempt to straighten up under his superior’s keen gaze.

“It’s good to be up,” Athos managed a small, but genuine, smile as he allowed Aramis to help him towards the small bench, which sat in a pool of sun and peace and quiet, by the kitchen door at the side of the Inn.  “I was beginning to imagine I would never be allowed outside again, except over Aramis’ dead body.”

“The fresh air will do you good,” Aramis refused to be baited. “Within reason. Which is the one thing I fear you sorely lack when it comes to your own well being.”

Despite his scolding words, Treville noted how carefully Aramis eased Athos down, before taking the blanket lying over his shoulder and tucking it gently around his knees

“Take that off and I will cut off your other arm.” He warned.

“As you see, there were a few conditions to my excursion.” Athos rolled his eyes fondly.

“He cannot stay out more than an hour. He must eat everything put before him for supper,” Aramis recited, before his eyes took on a calculating gleam. “And take a cup of willow bark tea before sleep.”

“I did _not_ agree to that.” Athos protested.

“Nonetheless, you will humour me,” Aramis declared. “For you have sensibly placed your care in my hands and your body sorely needs the rest. No matter how bitter tasting the remedy.”

Athos gave his brother a withering look, which the other man blithely ignored with the confidence of someone who was truly loved. Settling himself beside Athos, he nudged him slightly  before lifting his arm in invitation. His Captain willingly slid under it, so that he was resting against Aramis’ chest. Producing a small volume of poetry, Aramis brought his other arm around so that Athos was secure in his embrace and they could view the page together. Propping his chin on Athos’ good shoulder, Aramis began reading in a soft and melodious voice.

With a warm smile, Treville returned to his labours, letting Aramis' steady stream of words be a balm to his soul also.

When Athos fell asleep, a little short of his allotted hour of freedom, his head lolling on Aramis’ shoulder and his mouth ever so slightly open, Aramis carefully placed the book aside and pulled out his rosary, praying over his brother's sleeping form with an expression so tender and full of gratitude for his continued existence that Treville was loath to disturb him.

Only when the sun finally disappeared behind a bank of grey cloud did Athos begin to stir and the two men each took a side to carefully help him upstairs.

**Day Twelve. The Inn. Stables. Late Afternoon.**

A couple of days later, Treville had turned a blind eye as d’Artagnan had, admittedly not without some covert skill, sneaked Athos, who was still rather unsteady on his feet, out to the stables. Although, given just how adolescent those two could become when they were together he supposed he should have expected that they weren’t just visiting with Roger.

Aramis was going to _kill_ them and then him for allowing it to happen.

It took a full two hours of waiting and worrying, during which the skies opened and there was the mother of all thunderstorms, sending the villagers indoors to their fires and leaving the musketeers on guard cursing as the rain soaked through their hats and trickled down their necks, before the sound of hoof beats finally, _finally_ , heralded their safe return.

“What in God’s name were you _thinking_?” Treville thundered as soon as he caught sight of them.

The two men were both soaked to the skin and splattered from head to toe in mud. With Athos’ high colour and his shirt half un-tucked, sticking to him in huge damp patches and d’Artagnan’s dark hair utterly bedraggled, even as his eyes sparkled, it was clear this had been no quiet afternoon hack.

“No blame should fall on d’Artagnan,” Athos said, as he managed to slither off Roger, somewhat ungracefully, Treville’s quick reflexes the only thing that stopped him falling to the ground in a heap. “I insisted.”

“I expect my Musketeers to be able think for themselves,” Treville snapped, his worry soaring as he felt how Athos was positively _shaking_ under his hand. “Especially, when their Captain has apparently utterly _taken leave of his senses_.”

“His seat was as firm as ever. Roger is sufficiently well schooled that Athos can easily guide him with one hand,” D’Artagnan predictably came to Athos’ defence as he dismounted in his turn. “Even at a gallop over fences he was completely in control.”

Treville went very still.

D’Artagnan visibly paled.

Athos sighed.

“Perhaps,” He offered. “It would be best if we simply all pretended d’Artagnan didn’t just say that last part?”

“I can’t apologize for something I’m not sorry for, Minister,” d’Artagnan drew himself up to attention in the face of Treville’s clear displeasure, his eyes burning with fierce loyalty. “But I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”

"D’Artagnan should not be punished. I gave him a direct order,” Athos immediately countered. “Any fault is mine and mine alone.”

Treville took a moment to really look at his Captain. Without doubt, Athos was utterly spent, barely able to remain upright as he leant heavily into Treville’s grip on his elbow. The way his rib cage was heaving testament to his recent loss of condition.

But the colour in his cheeks and the lightness in his eyes made him look more _alive_ than he had since this whole dammed business had started.

All for one indeed.

“Well, at least you didn’t break your dammed fool necks, I suppose,” Treville gave a _long_ suffering sigh. “Come on, let’s get you out of those wet clothes, before Aramis returns.”

**Day Fourteen. The Inn. Bedchamber. Supper.**

With each day that passed Athos’ appetite had improved. One advantage of having a full company of Musketeers with little to do except patrol the, as yet undisturbed Spanish border, was that the men had plenty of time to set traps, shoot game, scavenge the countryside and fish the local rivers. So, rather than depleting the small village’s meagre resources, the presence of a company of Musketeers was providing unexpected bounty.

In return the villagers gave up their ovens, their root cellars and their store cupboards, offering up sharp carrots and mild onions, buttery turnips, bright beets and dried beans. Not to mention the welcome gifts of a basket of crisp apples or just picked mushrooms, freshly pressed pats of butter, a round of sharp cheese, a quart of fresh milk, or a piece of sweet honeycomb.

Rabbits were turned into stews and pies, venison into rich roasts and slow cooked casseroles, fish into soups and fillets dripping with butter for all to share.

Naturally, among _these_ men, it swiftly became a competition of sorts. When word reached Treville’s ears of a weekly wager, the prize pot to go to the man who brought back the richest prize in a seven day, he wisely said nothing. In his experience men of action needed something to occupy their time when not actually fighting, lest they start seeking out trouble.

He put his money on d’Artagnan. Unlike many Musketeers, who were the second and third sons of nobility and only hunted for sport, the lad had grown up on the land.

But in the first week, it was Porthos who took the prize pot.

“A boar,” Aramis watched the fat carcass with it’s curling tusks, as it turned on the spit in their room’s grand fireplace. “You took down a wild boar? By yourself?”

“Eh,” Porthos made a face. “To be honest the boar was an accident. I was following this fine buck and then I stopped to take a piss against a tree. Turns out this fellow here was on the other side of the trunk and he weren’t too happy about having his lunch interrupted by my clod hopping.”

“So, you just shot him?” d’Artagnan leaning over, braving the spitting of the fire as the fat sizzled and cooked, to examine the small, round, musket hole, dead between the eyes. “That doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“He came out snorting and snarling,” Porthos defended himself. “And I weren’t about to argue with them tusks.”

“Although, it wasn’t actually the boar that won you the prize.” Aramis noted.

“Thanks to Athos,” Porthos cast a fond look over at the figure already sleeping soundly the in bed, even though it was only just dusk. “Them things just look like animal droppings to me. I wouldn’t have given ‘em a second glance if he hadn’t shown ‘em to me once.”

“So the boar plus your truffles beat Etienne’s buck hands down.” d’Artagnan sat back in his chair and stretched his stocking feet out towards the crackling fire. “What are you going to spend the prize pot on?”

“Already spent it,” Porthos nodded at a large jug sat keeping warm by the fire. “A good supper of roast pork and spiced wine will do Athos a whole world of good.”  

“You spent all that money on a single jug of wine?” d’Artagnan could not believe it.

He knew Porthos could sometimes be extravagant, if he had a big win on a wager, at the card table. But he tended to spend his coin on quality merchandise, fine clothes or well-crafted weapons. Things that would last.

“It’s _spiced_ wine,” The other man explained. “It’s costly, but it’s warming, good for the blood.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” D’Artagnan admitted.

“That’s because it’s a _very_ expensive luxury,” Aramis elaborated. “Even our own dear Comte would only have tasted it on high days and holy days. It’s cost is far beyond a Musketeers usual humble stipend.”

When the Boar was finally cooked, they divided thick, rich, slices onto four plates and sent the remainder out to feed the rest of the company, filled goblets with the hot spiced wine and all piled into the bed around Athos, nudging him awake, to share in their bounty.

“Spiced wine? But how ..?” Athos’ eyes widened with surprise as he tasted the warm, rich, flavours. “Porthos, tell me you didn’t ..?”

“How many times have you spent your own coin to see to it that we had want we needed when we was sick or hurtin’,” Porthos shook his head. “M. Martain was plain that you needed good food to regain your strength. How could I let you go without when I had money in my pocket to burn?”

“Your boots have a hole in the sole.”

Porthos was torn between exasperation and fondness. Trust Athos to remember that.

“I need my brother a dammed sight more than I need new boots,” He stated firmly. A scrap of leather stuffed down there would do the job just fine for now. “So drink up, feel better and I’ll consider it money well spent.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Athos pressed his lips together as he looked around at his brothers. “Any of you. For all that you have done for me. Having each of you by my side has made a difficult time far easier to bear.”

“No such thanks are necessary, my dear Athos,” Aramis reproved gently. “What we do, we do out of love, just as you would, and have, done for us, as the situation required.”

“Not outta the woods yet,” Porthos was pragmatic. “Ain’t gonna be an easy thing for you, getting used to only having one arm. But we’ll be here for you. Every step of the way.”  

D’Artagnan said nothing.

Athos’ brow furrowed.

“D’Artagnan?” He prompted.

Twisting around so he could see the young man’s face, Porthos’ look of concern smoothed out into amusement as he saw the way d’Artagnan was resting against Athos’ shoulder, his eyes tightly shut.

“He’s asleep,” He grinned. “Spark out.”

“Already?” Aramis looked startled. Normally d’Artagnan had the most energy out of all of them. “I hope he’s not sickening for something.”

 He reached over and laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s brow. “He is a little warm.”

 “Now then don’t go borrowing trouble,” Porthos shook his head. “He’s warm because its bloody roasting in here. And you know he ain’t been sleeping well. It was bound to catch up with him sooner or later.”

“He hasn’t been sleeping well?” Athos _hadn’t_ known that.

"Nothing to concern yourself with,” Aramis soothed. “He’s been worried about you. Things will be better now you are on the mend.”

“Will it?”

Athos suddenly looked pained, as if he had not meant to let that slip.

“Ath?” Porthos prompted.

“You would tell me, would you not, as my brothers,” He asked, hesitantly. “if you thought I was taking too much on myself, thinking I could possibly Captain the regiment with my present infirmity?”

“Infirmity?” Aramis scoffed gently. “Athos, you’re a soldier, not some dowager Duchess languishing in her dotage. Your present weakness is because your body is recovering from a life threatening operation. But your bones are strong. Your muscles will quickly recover their condition with regular use. Your body simply needs time to find its former equilibrium. I am truly sorry if I have said or done anything which has caused you to doubt that.”

“My body insists on playing tricks with me,” Athos averted his eyes. “Sometimes, the arm pains me. Not the wound you understand, but the arm itself, as if it is still attached. And I feel my hand when I _know_  quite well it’s not there. It is .. disconcerting.”

“Yeah, I reckon that would be,” Porthos frowned. “But it’s not the first I’ve heard of it. It’s still early days. Odds are that'll ease in time.”

“Also, walking has proven more of a challenge than I could ever have imagined,” Athos admitted “It takes all my concentration not to trip over my own damned feet.”

“Didn’t we say you didn’t have to do any of this alone?” Porthos chided. “I reckon I can help you find your balance easy enough.” He looked at Aramis. “That’d be alright, wouldn’t it? If we take things easy? Build things up slow?”

“Of course,” Aramis knew Athos was safe in Porthos’ hands. He smiled at his brother. “You could try your hand at firing a musket too, if you like?”

“Really?” Athos looked boyishly eager at the prospect.

“It only takes one hand to fire a musket and your aim was always true,” Aramis reminded, as he flopped back onto the pillows. “You won’t be able to reload, of course, but how often do any of us have time for that during a fight?”

He brow furrowed slightly as he considered the matter.

“You could always carry a gun on each hip and maybe some kind of holster on Roger’s neck, that would give you four shots.”

“You’ve already learnt to eat perfectly well one handed,” Porthos pointed out. As soon as Athos set his mind to it, he had worked out that he could use a knife to cut up his plate, then then a spoon to see the food to his stomach. “And you won’t have any trouble writing in that fancy script of yours. You’ve always favoured your right for that. And a paperweight can do the job of holding the paper in place well enough.”

“Oh and I forgot, I have even come up with a solution for all those buttons you are so unreasonably fond of,” Aramis bounded up and went over to rummage in his saddle bag, producing something which he hid behind his back, before producing it with a flourish.

“A button hook.” Porthos grinned.

“It has pearls,” Athos eyed it dubiously. “And they are pink.”

“Ingrate,” Aramis slapped his stomach lightly. “I borrowed this one. We can have another made up more suited to your manly tastes.”

“My manly tastes thank you.” Athos said dryly.  

“Things _will_ get better Athos,” Aramis assured him earnestly. “You just need to be a slightly more patient, patient. Before you know it you will be returning to Paris, riding through the gates of the Garrison at the head of your men as the Captain of the Regiment should.”

Athos thought about that prospect for a moment.

“I’m going to need a new hat to replace that felt monstrosity.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is a fine sword,” Athos acknowledged kindly. “I shall be proud to wear it.”
> 
> D’Artagnan smiled, soft and fond, but over his head Aramis and Porthos shared a worried look. Athos hadn’t said anything about actually using the blade and, rather than testing its balance, he swiftly stowed it in his scabbard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some battles are harder than others.

**Day Fourteen. The Inn. Bedchamber.**

They had had the devil’s own job keeping it all a surprise, Porthos reflected. For men whose job it was to see to the safety and security of France, often on covert missions, or trusted with top secret missives, a company of Musketeers gossiped like a bunch of washerwomen. And now his friends no longer needed to be constantly by his side it would be only a matter of time before Athos worked out what they were about.

“He knows about the hat,” Aramis flopped down onto the small bench by the kitchen door, next to Porthos, his mouth set in a moue of discontent. “I’m sure he does.”

“Has he said anything?”

“This is Athos we’re talking about.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t know,” Porthos was pragmatic. “Or maybe he does know about the hat. But he’ll never guess at the rest of it.”

“I know,” Aramis sighed, only partly mollified. Porthos gave him an enquiring look, getting a twisted smile in return. “The hat was _my_ part of things. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“’Mis,” Porthos scoffed fondly. “Think on. The hat was _never_ gonna be a surprise. Athos knows we love him too well to let him lead the Regiment wearing that ugly felt monstrosity.”

“That _is_ true,” Aramis rolled his head around so he could look Porthos in the eye and raised a cautious brow. “The men want to assemble in the tap room to give our noble Captain his gifts.”

“I think we need to tread carefully on that,” Porthos considered. “Athos ain’t never been one for big displays. Remember how Treville had to flat out order him to attend his own birthday party that first year?”

“He couldn’t believe the entire Garrison would turn out for his sake, much less contribute their own coin to provide the food and drink. As if our motto was no more than words.” Aramis recalled. He bit his lip, considering. “He’s got better over the years.”

“True, but he ain’t exactly himself right now,” Porthos pointed out. “Too much kindness might do for him.”

They settling on just the five of them eating a good dinner of beef stew and enjoying a glass or two of a vintage port around the fire in their bedchamber, before bringing in the numerous parcels. When he saw the way Athos visibly tensed at the greater than expected bounty Aramis first cursed Ortiz’ name for all the harm he had done and then thanked God they had not given into the company’s clamour to do this in the crowded taproom.

“What’s all this?” Athos eyed the parcels warily.

“The entire company wanted to replace what you lost at the hands of the Spanish. Every last one of us gave what we could and Treville made up the rest.” D’Artagnan explained eagerly, keen to see Athos’ reaction to the gifts. “Open this one first.”

The first package contained a new hat in a soft black felt with a grey band and a dark grey feather. Athos could not help but smile as he turned it around in his hands at the obvious signs of Aramis reigning back on his own flamboyant tendencies to buy something Athos would appreciate.

Glancing up he met his brother’s gaze and gave the slightest of nods.

Aramis positively beamed in response, delighted by the success of his gift.

The second package contained a fine new doublet made of top grade leather. Its cut was rather dashing, nipped in at the waist to accentuate Athos’s neat figure, but the decoration was muted, a recurring pattern of fleur de lys embossed across the shoulders. It fastened with small pairs of brass buttons, rather than the usual one long line making it much faster to do one handed.

Nestled underneath the doublet was a sling, made of the softest, finest, linen, designed to lie under his shirt and cup and support Athos’ stump, so he did not have to constantly bear its weight.

“Oh.” Athos said, a little helplessly when he saw it. How like Porthos to have noticed the problem and set his mind to solving it. He looked up with gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you, my friend.”

The third package was a new pauldron, slightly larger than his own one, so it would slip on and off his left arm more easily, with the fleur de lys picked out in gold. Athos raised a brow at Treville for the extravagance but the Minister simply smirked.

There was also a new pair of boots, made of the finest leather, two pairs of soft woolen stockings, three shirts, each with the left sleeve neatly cut and sewn to give the weight of his left limb some support.

To his astonishment there was also a replacement for his signet ring. The simple silver band embossed with a fleur de lys and engraved inside the band with _all for one_ would only have cost a fraction of the price of the de la Frere heirloom, but Athos could not have been more pleased with it.

Whatever the final package contained, it had d’Artagnan on the edge of his seat, his eyes lit with anticipation and his left leg jiggling with pent up adrenalin.

Athos eyed the long, narrow, box and his heart sank.

“Go on,” d’Artagnan encouraged, bright and eager. “Open it.”

The sword was an exact replica of the one he had given up. Athos could only admire the Gaston’s eye for detail. Even the gouge across the guard, was faithfully reproduced.

“It is a fine sword,” Athos acknowledged kindly. “I shall be proud to wear it.”

D’Artagnan smiled, soft and fond, but over his head Aramis and Porthos shared a worried look. Athos hadn’t said anything about actually _using_ the blade and, rather than testing its balance, he swiftly stowed it in his scabbard.

**Day Sixteen. The Inn. Courtyard.**

“Think we should be worried?” Porthos murmured, a for Aramis’ ears only.

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder surveying the action. Aramis was just his shirtsleeves with his braces handing down, Porthos’ doublet was hanging open, testament to their own recent executions. Just as the Inn had become a temporary Garrison, so the courtyard had become the Musketeers’ training ground. At any time of the day pairs or groups of men could be found running through lunges and stances, the clash of blades cutting through the air, as they sparred.

“He _has_ made remarkable progress.” Aramis tried to look on the bright side. “And it’s not as if he’s _not_ helping.”

Indeed, even as they spoke, Athos was moving among the men, offering advice, analyzing their form, correcting stances.

“It ain’t the same,” Porthos pressed his lips together unhappily.

Aramis couldn’t deny it. At first there had been no question of Athos going about armed. The weight of a sword would only have weighed him down and thrown off his balance. But to their surprise, even as his health had improved, he had seemed in no hurry to remedy the matter.

He was working hard with Porthos to improve his balance. He had stood for hours at the butts with Aramis, honing shooting skills until he could hit the bullseye at least as often as before. It was clear he could ride as well as he ever had. They had even discovered that he could still swim tolerably well. But his sword belt lay, apparently forgotten, across the back of a chair in their bedchamber.

“Every time d’Artgnan offers to spar with him, Athos turns him down,” Porthos cast a worried look behind them, where the Gascon sat cleaning his sword, every line of his body stood testament to the fact that he was in a full on sulk at being re-buffed yet again. “I haven’t seen him with a sword in his hand, once. Have you?”

“I think we ..”

Whatever Aramis was about to say died in his throat at the scene un-folding before him. Gerard, still recovering from his head wound, over-extended, causing him to fail wildly in an attempt to recover his balance, only to hit Athos squarely in the shoulder with the pommel of his sword, causing him to topple backwards.

At the blur of movement Aramis’ hand flashed out without conscious thought, catching d’Artagnan by the arm and hauling him back. On the Gascon’s other side Porthos had also snagged a handful of the younger man’s doublet and between them they dragged the struggling young man back under the shadows of the eaves.

“Be still,” Porthos hissed in his ear. “Stop makin’ a show.”

Athos landed heavily on the hard packed dirt, at the last moment twisting sideways to take the brunt of it on his back, rather than directly on the stump of his arm. Even so, his face contorted in pain. All the noise the yard had ceased as the men looked on in horror.

Moving slowly, and very carefully, Athos rolled over onto his front and pushed himself up onto his knees. A mortified Gerard, his face a deep red, hovered uncertainly, clearly anxious to help, but not wishing to cause offence.

“Captain, I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I should have been paying more attention.” He said, flustered, at having all eyes upon him.

“It was an accident, Gerard,” Athos responded, his tone as smooth and calm as if he was sitting behind his desk, rather than on his knees in the dirt. “Your form is much improved. Bring your left foot back a little further next time and you will be able to follow through.”

“Yes, Captain, thank you Captain,” Gerard beamed proudly. “I’ll remember that.”  

“Good. Now, help me up.”

Athos held out his hand. There was just enough of an order in his tone for Gerard to obey without thinking, with no more fuss than assisting any other of his brothers. Indeed, the rest of the men had already returned to their exercises, before Athos had even gained his feet.

“Let me go.” D’Artagnan demanded of his friends, with quiet fury.

“Not just yet, I think.” Aramis had no intention of letting the hot headed young Gascon stalk off, or worse, get anywhere near Athos until they had had this out. Still, they didn’t need an audience. “Let’s take this upstairs.”

D’Artagnan’s mood did not improve as they made the short journey upstairs. But he did, at least, hold his tongue until Porthos had firmly closed the door.

“Why did you stop me?” He hissed, fury and defiance evident in every line of his body. “Athos needed help.”

“You really think Athos would have thanked you for rushin’ to his aid like he was some kind of swooning maiden in front of all the men?” Porthos demanded.

“So, I’m just supposed to let him injure his arm further?” d’Artagnan protested hotly.

“Athos knows how to fall and roll to protect an injury. It was one of the first things I taught him,” He gave the Gascon a telling look. “Just like it was one of the first things I taught you.”

Some of the fire went out of the younger man at the truth of that.

“His balance has been off.” He muttered defiantly in his own defence.

"It has indeed,” Aramis agreed. “It will be a while yet before he can fully compensate for that. But what Athos needed was to do this by himself.”

“I thought you at least would be on my side,” d’Artagnan scowled at him. “Or don’t you care that he could have undone all your good work in an instant?”

“That comment is unworthy of you,” Aramis rebuked. “Athos is as dear to me as he is to you. But he is also a soldier. If he is to Captain the regiment, he must re-learn what he is capable of. Would you have reacted like that if he had lost his footing on the practice ground during a bout?”

D’Artagnan’s cheeks grew pink as his friend’s words sunk in. He realised that he had been too hasty, acting like a concerned younger brother, rather than a soldier.

“Athos never loses his footing during a bout,” He muttered sulkily. “At least, he never used to.”

“Still, my point well made, I think,” Aramis gave him a sharp look, although, knowing that the Gascon’s actions had been rooted in love, he did not belabor it. “Athos must find his own way in this. We can help him only as far as he permits it.”

“And you know he don’t take well to coddling.” Porthos grimaced. “He gets right prickly when you try. We’ll need to go carefully from now on in.”

“But we’re his brothers, we’re supposed to help him,” d’Artagnan protested. “And he’s been nothing but gracious about it.”

“Whilst he has been laid low with fever and weakness,” Aramis acknowledged. “But now his strength is returning and with it the realization that he can no longer fend for himself as he used to. This isn’t like when one of us is sick or injured, d’Artagnan. Athos may have taken our hovering well thus far, but what about next month, or a year from now? Becoming reliant on us, day in and day out, would be a sure way to destroy our friendship. His pride won’t stand for it.”

“Plus, who’s to say what will happen when the Regiment is mobilized?” Porthos challenged. “We won’t always be able to stay by his side. We have to start planning for that. And I for one wouldn’t be happy about leaving him to fend for himself.”

“He’s too quick to neglect his own welfare as it is.” Aramis agreed.

“Treville had a valet,” D’Artagnan recalled. “But servants make Athos uncomfortable. He’d never agree to having some stranger attending on him.”

“Not some random stranger, no,” Porthos smirked. “But there might be a way to help Athos and do someone else a good turn in the process. When we get back to Paris, I’ll ask around. See what I can dig up.”

“For now, we have a more pressing problem,” Aramis sighed. “How to encourage Athos to pick up a blade again.”

“Do you think I should have gone with something lighter?” d’Artagnan asked, as he walked over to Athos’ sword belt, strewn across the chair, and pulled the sword out of the scabbard to test its weight. “A rapier, perhaps?”

“I don’t think it’s the sword that’s the issue,” Aramis said honestly. “It’s more ..” He broke off as he realised d’Artagnan was staring at the blade in open mouthed surprise. “What is it?”

“Look, here." D’Artagnan showed them the place on the guard, where the smooth arc of the metal was slightly bent out of shape, as if it had hit against something with considerable force, his expression troubled. "I think he's been practising, after all."

"And by the looks of that," Porthos observed. "It ain't been going well."


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I never realised how important my other arm was as a counter weight,” Athos admitted at last, scrubbing at his face. “I have been trying to compensate for it. But it is a difficult thing to master without a sparring partner.”
> 
> “D’Artagnan has offered.” Aramis said lightly. “More than once.”

Two days of pondering, discussion, raised voices and frayed tempers, left them no further forward as to how to broach the tricky issue of Athos’ covert sword practice.

On the third day, their Captain took matters into his own hands.

“Not that this isn’t a beautiful day for a ride,” Aramis observed, letting the reins slip easily through his fingers so his mount could drop her head, her flanks still heaving from their impromptu race, as he arched his back, taking a perverse pleasure in the way his bones cracked, as he uncapped his water skin and drank deeply before continuing. “But France is poised on the brink of war, the regiment will move to the border very soon now. I presume you did not bring me out here to admire the countryside.”

“No, I did not,” Athos agreed. “I wished to ask your assistance with something.”

“You do remember that you are the Captain now?” Aramis teased. “You only have to order and I must obey.”

"Indeed," Athos said dryly. "Because that has always gone so well in the past."

"I would never do anything to diminish your trust in me," Aramis vowed seriously. "I might be reckless on my own account, or on behalf of my friends, but I will always follow your orders."

"Without question?" Athos deliberately provoked.

"We have usually come to a resolution," Aramis grinned at him. "Even whilst taking fire."

“This isn’t something I require from you as your Captain,” Athos sobered. He looked out over the countryside and pressed his lips together tightly.  “This is something I need from my brother.”

“Well, in that case,” Aramis softened his tone. “I am entirely at your disposal.”

They rode on a little further until the horses had fully cooled down. Then with some obvious reluctance Athos steered his horse off the road, into a peaceful little clearing, with a stand of trees and a small bubbling stream.

“I suppose this is a good a spot as any.”

“That’s good.” Aramis kicked his leg over the front of his saddle and dismounted. “For what exactly?”

Another moment of hesitation and then Athos kicked his feet out of the stirrups and slid off to join him on the ground. Momentarily blocked from Aramis’ view by Roger’s broad neck there was a very familiar sound as a blade was slid from a scabbard, then Athos came to join him.

“This.”

Aramis regarded the sword in his brother’s hand.

“You’ve been practicing?”

“Stances and lunges only,” Athos tilted his head on one side. “I thought it best to avoid taking on an opponent until I was relatively sure I would not accidentally skewer them.”

“Relatively sure? That’s a comfort.” Nonetheless, Aramis drew his own blade.

The two men began circling each other. Aramis tried a few careful parries. Athos easily blocked them.

“You _have_ been practicing.” Aramis grinned, feeling encouraged. He sped up his attack. Athos kept pace. “What about your left side? Does it leave you open?”

“If you recall, I was never as fond of using the main gauche as you,” Athos stumbled slightly as he blocked a feint towards his ribs. “I always preferred to let my sword arm do the talking.”

“And it still speaks most eloquently,” Aramis abruptly side stepped to avoid a blow and Athos staggered wildly as his momentum carried him forward, taking several steps to recover his balance. “But you need to watch that.”

“Indeed,” Athos sighed, as he used his forearm to wipe the sweat already forming on his brow. “Again.”

They moved across the clearing, exchanging feints and parries. Athos’ technique was as good as ever, but he struggled to find his footing. Aramis ducked as one swing went rather wild, the blade biting into the bark of a tree instead.

“Damn it,” Athos pulled it out, scowling darkly with displeasure. “Again.”

“Athos ..” Aramis could not help but notice that his brother’s arm was beginning to tremble with the effort of holding his sword.

“ _Again_.” Athos barked.

Aramis observed his brother carefully as they fought. Sweat was now running down his face and soaking through his shirt. And his balance became increasingly erratic as he tired. He was just about to call a halt when Athos seemed to trip over his own feet, barely missing tumbling into the stream, as he landed hard in the dirt.

For a moment he lay un-moving face down on the ground, then he rolled over, pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his arms. The very picture of despair.

Giving Athos a moment to few moments to gather himself he went to his saddle bags and pulled out the fresh bread, smooth brie, apples he had brought along and set out the small picnic. Before settling quietly beside Athos and placing a gentle hand between his shoulder blades.

For several minutes, there was nothing but the sound of bird song and the rush of the nearby river. Finally, Athos raised his head.

“Not a word,” Aramis chided, as he caught Athos’ frown at the meal and knew he was worrying about too great a delay. “You have been taxing yourself to the limit recently. The world will not end if you take a few moments to eat.”

“Did you bring wine?”

“Athos, please.”

Aramis passed over a water skin, enjoying Athos’ look of surprise when he tasted the rather good merlot it contained. They ate largely in silence, simply enjoying a moment of quiet companionship. Aramis, displaying the infinite patience which made him such as great sniper, gave his brother the time he needed to order his thoughts.

“I never realised how important my other arm was as a counter weight,” Athos admitted at last, scrubbing at his face. “I have been trying to compensate for it. But it is a difficult thing to master without a sparring partner.”

“D’Artagnan has offered.” Aramis said lightly. “More than once.”

“Almost daily, I know,” Athos agreed. “But right now, I don’t think he would find it difficult to best me and I’m not sure he is quite ready for that.”

“Are _you_ ready for that?”

“Perhaps not,” Athos said honestly. “But neither am I so vain that I would expect to remain the best swordsman in the regiment with only one arm. I would most likely have ceded that title to him in a few years anyway.”

“You were always better with a sword than Treville,” Aramis reminded. “It never made the slightest difference to his Captaincy.”

“Indeed, but d’Artagnan has dreamed of being able to land a hit on me, ever since he burst into our lives. I am afraid that to do so under present conditions will be a source of pain to him rather than the pride and joy I would wish for him.”

“And yet your perseverance suggests you are not yet ready to ready to hang up your sword for good. Nor do I see any sign that you should,” Aramis counselled. “Even one handed you’re still better than most.”

Athos gave him one of those rare, open, smiles, that made his face look decades younger.

“Although, your stamina is quite shockingly lacking.” Aarmis tutted.

That earned him a glare.

“It may have escaped your notice, but I have been injured of late.” Athos huffed.

“You cannot avoid sparring with d’Artagnan forever. We need to find a solution,” Aramis mused. “Things might go easier if he were to best Porthos or I first.”

“No,” Athos vetoed that. “It’s a generous offer my friend, but I doubt d’Artagnan would be so easily fooled. I have spent too long teaching you both everything I know for that to happen just yet.”

“True,” Aramis knew each and every one of Athos’ signature moves as well as he knew his catechism. It had never really an issue between the three of them. “Each of us shared our own skills in a spirit of brotherhood. But we never expected to best you with a sword. Nor Porthos in hand to hand.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not forgetting my own prowess with a musket.”

“How could we forget when your skill has saved our lives so frequently?” Athos said softly, his voice threaded with quiet pride. He turned his head to look Aramis in the eye. “I don’t feel I ever thank you sufficiently for that.”

Having fully expected to be teased for his boasting Aramis’ eyes grew bright at the heartfelt praise.

“But none of us were a headstrong young man who still felt they had everything to prove,” Athos sighed. “D’Artagnan deserves better than to feel forever in my shadow.”

“Then don’t spar with him, ask for his help.” Aramis advised in a tone of realization.

“His help?” Athos frowned, not seeing where this was going.

“Porthos has helped you to fight almost as well as you once did. I have honed your skill with a musket. D’Artagnan has had no opportunity to anything more for you than fetch and carry and occasionally read, which he sees as much for his own benefit as yours. Don’t make this about a student besting his mentor. Ask your little brother to help speed up your recovery.”     

“I don’t know,” Athos considered it, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It was actually a very good idea. “I fear he may burst with pride.”

“Well, you do need the practice.” Aramis deadpanned.

Afterwards, in his defence, Aramis would argue that there was absolutely no warning. Not in flicker in Athos’ expression, or the slightest shift in his body weight. Except, one moment he was sitting, nice and dry, on the river bank and the next he was spluttering and flailing with his arms in the water as he came up for air.

“That was rather childish, don’t you think?” He said with all the dignity he could muster in the circumstances.

“There’s always more than one way to win a battle,” Athos reminded him, with a grin, as he polished an apple on his shirt and bit into it with no small air of satisfaction. “I would expect my most experienced Lieutenant to remember that.”

“Well, of course I ..” Aramis paused. “Wait. Lieutenant?”

“Who else has your battle experience and knowledge of the men?” Athos tipped his head on one side. “Not to mention my absolute faith and trust?”

“Oh,” Aramis said a little shyly. Clearly pleased. “And Porthos too?”

“Treville had myself and Cordet,” Athos affirmed. “His Majesty has already approved both promotions. I informed him just before we rode out this morning.”

“He cried, didn’t he?” Aramis smirked, well acquainted with how emotional his brother would be at receiving such an honour.

“He shed a few tears.” Athos smiled fondly at the memory.  

“Then we should be getting back. I do believe we have a war to win.” Aramis declared, as he scrambled to his feet, finding that the water was only waist deep. Still. “A hand out would not go amiss?”

He fully intended to ensure that his brother ended up just as wet as he was.

Athos raised a brow at the obvious ploy then looked solemnly at the apple in his hand and then at the stump of his arm.

“My apologies,” He smirked. “I don’t seem to have one to spare.”

True to his word, as soon as they returned to the Inn Athos approached d’Artagnan. Aramis watched in approval as he cast an arm around the younger man’s shoulders and took him to one side, making it clear that this was a request from his brother rather than an order from his Captain.

Busy taking the saddlebags off the horses Aramis was too far away to hear what Athos said. But he saw the way d’Artagnan’s face lit up at his words and drew himself up a little straighter, as he nodded. With a broad smile, Athos clapped him on the shoulder in thanks, before moving off to find Porthos.

Leaving d’Artagnan looking after him, looking pleased, but not a little shell shocked at his parting words.

“Alright?”

The Gascon startled slightly as Aramis appeared at his side and clapped him on the back.

“Athos wants me to work with him on his sword fighting,” d’Artagnan confided. “He says losing the arm has changed everything so he wants to start with the basics and re-learn everything from the very beginning.”

Aramis supposed he should not be surprised. Athos had never been one to do things by halves. And by starting off with moves he could easily master it would develop his stamina and help regain his condition. Also, by the time he progressed to the more complex moves, he and d’Artagnan would have grown accustomed to working together as to find solutions to his issues, rather than the focus being on the victor.  

“But first,” d’Artagnan grinned. “He has asked me to round up sufficient food and drink to celebrate the promotion of the regiment’s two newest Lieutenants.”

“Good luck with that my friend,” Aramis grinned. “When Porthos is celebrating his appetite is notoriously prodigious.”

D’Artagnan’s face fell.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Regiment cannot lead itself,” Treville counselled. “With war coming they need a Captain in whom they can place their trust. I would never have chosen you if I did not think you were that man.”
> 
> “To be a safe pair of hands?” Athos scoffed.
> 
> “To be a Musketeer.” Treville corrected.

For all that it was done without the slightest fanfare, their return to Paris felt like they had achieved a great victory in a hard fought battle, even if the war itself, of ensuring that Athos was fully confident in his own abilities to lead the men to war, was yet to be won.

Passing through the gateway d’Artagnan pulled up his horse and looked around at the sights and sounds of the garrison courtyard, without making any move to dismount.

“It’s good to be home. There were a few times when I didn’t think I would ever see this place again.”

Porthos, already on the ground, his saddlebags slung over his shoulders, looked up sharply at the timely reminder of how much d’Artagnan had also suffered at Ortiz hands. Reaching up he squeezed the young man’s thigh in reassurance.

“Any day we all make it home is always a dammed good day.”

D’Artagnan looked down at him, his eyes soft with gratitude for the simple, but heartfelt, comfort. Then, as if alerted by some sixth sense, he looked across the courtyard, watching as Athos walked the few steps to the bottom of the staircase which led to the Captain’s office, put his hand on the rail.

And hesitated.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a swift look and then, without a word needing to be said, the Gascon dismounted, handing his horse off to the waiting stable lad, then together they crossed the courtyard to fall in beside Aramis and Treviille.

Turning his head, Athos raised an eloquent brow to see his them all lined up behind him in a visible sign of support.

“Whatever comes, we’ve got your back, yeah?” Porthos spoke up.

“Always.” D’Artagnan vowed.

“The Regiment cannot lead itself,” Treville counselled. “With war coming they need a Captain in whom they can place their trust. I would never have chosen you if I did not think you were that man.”

“To be a safe pair of hands?” Athos scoffed bitterly. His caustic tone doing nothing to mask his own fear and doubt to those who loved him.

“To be a Musketeer.” Treville corrected.

Athos blinked, then sucked in a sharp rattling breath, his remaining hand gripping the familiar bannister tightly. For one agonizing moment he let his head drop and stood, shoulders bowed, as if the sheer weight of hope and expectation on his shoulders was finally too much for his shattered soul to bear. Then he turned his head, looked at each of the four men assembled, letting a small, fond, smile, creep across his face at their steadfast support.

“Then I suppose I had best get to it.” He allowed.

Entering the Captain's office it looked much as it ever had. Although, Treville’s few personal effects had been removed, his own equally sparse belongings were exactly as he had left them. Crossing the room he caught sight of a pair of gloves casually tossed on the bed and came to a dead halt.

With heart stopping clarity he remembered the moment he had cast them down, without a second thought as he stripped first one, then the other, from his hands, focused on thoughts of the war to come, the need to see to the sharpening of his main gauche, the reply he would compose to the father seeking to purchase a commission for a quiet, bookish, son with no aptitude for the sword, his dinner pans with d’Artagnan.

 And then the missive had arrived alerting him to incursions on the French Spanish boarder.

 And his life had changed forever.

 “Athos?” Aramis’ voice asked kindly.

Looking up with a start, he realised he had picked up one of the gloves and was clutching it tightly in his fist. Aramis stood at his left shoulder, his face creased with concern. Across the room Treville was pouring out cups of wine, d’Artagnan was arranging four chairs around the desk, Porthos had disappeared.

“Here.”

A linen handkerchief appeared in his line of sight as Aramis’ other hand settled on his shoulder and stayed there.

Oh, he was crying.  

Slightly embarrassed, he put the glove down, rubbed the handkerchief across his face, as much to give himself a moment hiding in its soft folds, as to wipe the tears from his face. Then, a little awkwardly, he blew his nose one handedly.

“Thank you."

Without a sign of distaste Aramis took the soiled item from him and tucked it in his pocket, his eyes never leaving his brother.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” He quoted Isaiah 41.10. The hand on his shoulder tightened. “You do not bear this alone, brother.”

At that moment, Porthos burst back into the room, bearing a tray of food, Treville had cleared the desk and placed the cups in a circle in front of each chair and now set to helping Porthos fill a stack of bowls with stew and slicing the bread, d’Artagnan was stoking up the fire, so the room was filled with a warming glow.

“So, I see,” Athos managed a small smile. Looking down at the gloves, he remembered yet another act of kindness. Gathering the gloves up in his right hand, he offered them out. “Here, you would do me a kindness, if you agreed to accept these.”

“Athos,” Aramis frowned. The gloves were hardly worn and clearly expensive. “You will still need gloves.”

“I will still need ‘a’ glove,” Athos corrected. “These are too good for one to sit languishing. Do not think I did not notice how you had to cut the left of those you saved so hard for from my swollen hand when we finally arrived at the Inn. And I still wear it’s brother. I am simply repaying a debt.”

Aramis felt a pang. He had _not_ realised that Athos, who by the time they had arrived at the Inn, had been wracked with fever and weak with exhaustion had been aware of his small sacrifice. Much less that he had held it in his heart all these weeks. He swallowed hard, acutely aware of the lump in his throat and the sting of tears in his eyes.

He had only lost a glove. Athos had lost so much more.

“I shall take the gloves gladly, if it will make you happy,” He finally responded, accepting the gift, “But let there be no more talk of debts. We are brothers. A pair of gloves, however costly, is as nothing to me, if it speaks to your comfort.”

As they sat gathered around the desk to eat, passing the bread around, refilling glasses, they could not help but notice that whilst Athos ate heartily, he was unusually quiet, even for him. His eyes distant as he let their banter wash over him.

“Oi,” Finally Porthos had had enough and kicked him gently on the ankle, waiting until Athos looked up, a faint expression of surprise on his face, as if he had forgotten exactly where and with whom he was. “Things are finally starting to look up. You better not be brooding or I’ll knock you on your arse.”

“I can assure I was not brooding,” Athos retorted with a smile for his directness. “Despite my burdens, I cannot consider myself anything but a fortune man to have found such true brotherhood. It is not something I was previously accustomed to. It has made many difficult things easier to bear and been a source of joy in a life I felt no longer deserving of such.”

“We’re glad,” Aramis spoke from the heart. He toasted his brother with his cup, as he eyed him meaningfully. “And no more than you deserve. Never forget that.”

Athos inclined his head slightly, his eyes bright and fond.

“But surely Thomas ..” d’Artagnan began guilelessly, only to trail off at Treville’s glare.

For his part, Athos put down his cup and gave the Gascon his full attention.

“Thomas was my younger brother, and I loved him dearly. From an early age I understood that it was my duty to take care of him,” Athos paused, obviously considering his next words carefully, even as his eyes grew dark with pain. “But he was never someone _I_ could rely on. The burdens of running the estate were always mine alone.”

“But you were so young when your father passed,” d’Artagnan protested on Athos’ behalf. “Even if he was too young to shoulder much responsibility, surely, at least he sought to stop you floundering in grief.”

“Thomas mostly cared that the estate financed his love of fine clothes, fast company and financed his gambling debts. At least one girl was almost ruined when he got her with child and abrogated all responsibility. Athos was left to see to it she was taken care of, even after she lost the babe,” Treville said in a clipped tone. “Beyond that the family holdings held no interest for him.”

“Alright, now you’re makin’ me feel bad.” Porthos grumbled.

“And me also.” Aramis looked pained.

“Gentlemen,” Athos regarded them both with an impossibly fond look. “I do not recall being drawn into assisting in settling a single one of Porthos’ gambling debts, unless it was at the point of a sword when he was accused of cheating, which I have always rather enjoyed. And Aramis, you have always been the one trying to augment my plain wardrobe, rather than ever expecting me to pay for your flourishes. As for your romantic entanglements, I have always worried that you will lose your heart or your head, but I have never doubted that you love truly and deeply.”

He paused, looking into his cup, before drinking deeply of his wine.

“My father’s retainers, whose role it was to support me, merely judged me for not being my father. There was no-one I could turn to. Each time one of you knows my needs better than I do myself I realise that, perhaps Thomas did not love me as much as I loved him.”

“Ah, dammit all to hell, Ath.” Porthos teared up.

Orphaned at five, Porthos had always imagined having a family as some kind of fairy tale. Both Aramis and d’Artagnan had benefitted from having loving parents and, for all that d’Artagnan had lost his mother when he was a child, and Aramis had had to bury his father well before he reached his majority, they spoke both of their childhoods with enviable fondness.

Athos had almost never spoken of his life before the Musketeers. Porthos had always imagined it had something to do with not wanting to highlight the difference between Athos’ high status and his own dubious roots. Not that he had been lonely, isolated and unhappy.

Never that.

“Thomas was a jealous child, who couldn’t bear not to be the centre of everyone’s attention.” Treville spoke up, his eyes dark with fury.

“The first time you came to Pinon I was sure you would be so captivated by his charm that you would swiftly tire of my company,” Athos recalled absently. “Everyone else was always did.”

“But why?” d’Artagnan bristled, quick to come to his mentor’s defense.

Treville sighed, remembering that quiet and serious child, too painfully shy to step into the circle of warmth and approval that should rightfully have belonged to the heir. He hated that such a fine, caring, _witty_ soul should have been made to feel so often slighted that he felt it was not only expected, but deserved.

“As the youngest son, all his life Thomas’ every wish was indulged,” Treville recalled. “Athos’ mother died when he was very young. His father quickly re-married. Marie was very young, a kind and caring women, a good step-mother to Athos, but too indulgent of her only son. Whilst the Comte trained his heir up in his responsibilities Thomas was let off his lessons and allowed to follow his own pursuits rather than learning about duty. He didn’t care about the title or the estate, all he wanted was a life of leisure and enough coin to enjoy himself and entertain his friends. When Athos married Anne his father’s insistence that he be betrothed to Catherine was the first time he wasn’t able to get his own way.”

“He was furious with father,” Athos recalled hollowly. “And with me. He said it was _my_ duty to marry Catherine. Not his.”

None of his brothers could think of anything to say to that. They all knew how deeply Athos would have felt such a barb. His guilt at following his own happiness for once, rather than doing his duty as vicomte to make a good match, would have been all consuming.

“Catherine made no secret of the fact that she would rather have married you,” Treville continued. “And Thomas was left fuming that his sensible, dutiful, brother had captured the heart of an intoxicating beauty, who wouldn’t give him a second glance.” Treville recalled.

“That’s gotta have dented that inflated ego of his some,” Porthos observed. Aramis rolled his eyes at him. “Just saying.”

“Quite,” Treville agreed.  He stood up and came around the table, crouching down beside Athos’ seated form, so he could lay a gentle hand on his thigh, as he looked him in the eye. “I have waited years until I felt you were ready to here this. Thomas’ faults were entirely his own. You bear no responsibility for the creature he became. A better man would have flourished under your care.”

“I know that I have,” d’Artagnan spoke up. “And I hate that someone who should have had nothing but love for you should ever have caused you such pain.”

A knock at the door had them all looking up in surprise. This late it could only be some kind of emergency.

“Come.” Treville and Athos said as one.

The others smirked, as the Minister inclined his head, ceding his authority here to his Captain. Athos took the missive from Bertram with a polite nod, cracked the seal with his thumb nail and unfolded the parchment. And went stark white.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan worried.

“The King commands my presence at court tomorrow morning.”

“Well, at least he gave you chance for a decent feed, a bit of a wash and brush up to clean off the dust of the road and have a good night’s sleep beforehand.” Porthos tried to be positive.

“Indeed,” Athos pressed his lips together, “Let us hope that his Majesty also adheres to the general consensus that a cripple with only one arm is fully capable of leading his elite regiment of Musketeers.”

“Amen to that.” Aramis unconsciously fingered his rosary beads.

For none of them, not even Treville, could predict what mood would take their captious King. This time tomorrow Athos might have the full support of his monarch. Or, God forbid, he might have his commission revoked.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It would be selfish in the extreme to repay the love and care you gentlemen have shown me during my recovery by causing you to worry,” Athos allowed. “This war will not be easily won. I will not have you distracted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the beginning of the end. Be sure your sins will find you out.

“I still say, one of us should go up there,” d’Artagnan insisted, as he had been doing for the last several minutes, leaning back against one of the posts in the training yard. The stubborn tilt to his jaw indicated he wasn’t about to let this go anytime soon. “Bad enough he missed breakfast, but he wouldn’t miss morning muster without a good reason. Not now he’s the Captain.”

“He does have a point,” Porthos conceded reluctantly, looking at Aramis. Even when he was drinking heavily Athos sense of duty had ensured he was rarely late to report. “Maybe, we _should_ be worried.”

“Or maybe, he just overslept,” Aramis played devil’s advocate. “A full day’s riding yesterday was bound to tax him. But he’ll be mortified if we draw attention to any sign of weakness.”

“True. And it’s not as if we can’t handle things down here,” Porthos gave a small shrug. Athos had made him and Aramis his Lieutenants precisely because they had the experience to manage the regiment when he was absent. So patrols had already been set, Palace guard had been dispatched, groups were busy practicing sword work, hand to hand or shooting as required. But then his brow creased. “’Cept what if he’s up there and he really does need our help?”

Back at the Inn, when they were all shared the same room, it had been second nature to help Athos do up a few buttons, or slip an arm into a sleeve, without having to draw attention to it. But all alone in the Captain’s office it was all too possible Athos had struggled to dress himself.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” D’Artagnan was exasperated. “Except neither of you have been listening.”

“We’ve been listening, but if we go up there and nothing’s wrong he’s not going to thank us for interfering,” Aramis pointed out, a little acerbically. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d braved Athos’ ire for his own good. “Porthos, you go.”

“Hey, how did I get the short straw?” Porthos protested. “We never even drew.”  

“I could go up,” d’Artagnan offered. “I took his boots to polish them for his audience with the King. I’ll just say I’m returning them.”

“Did you tell actually Athos you were cleaning his boots?” Aramis arched a brow.

D’Artagnan had the grace to look slightly guilty.

“He was already asleep, I thought I was doing him a kindness.” Getting their uniforms parade ready for Palace duty took hours of polishing buttons and buckles and wiping off leather. He frowned slightly in consternation. “I suppose he _could_ have done it one handed.”

“Don’t fret,” Porthos reassured him. “You did the right thing,” Even allowing for the fact that Athos could have stood the boots up in a jack, he would have needed an age to get them properly clean and right now, it was more important he got his rest. “But maybe its best I’m the one to take ‘em back up to him, eh?”

Granted d’Artagnan often had a way of talking Athos around. And their Captain frequently had more patience with the younger man than he might spare for Aramis and Porthos, who were not so reliant on his good opinion. But Athos could have a vicious tongue on him when he was tired or hurting and d’Artagnan was too likely to take his sharp words to heart.

“Just .. make sure he’s alright.” D’Artagnan told him.

Mounting the stairs, boots in hand, Porthos could hear muffled thumps and, as he neared the door, muttered curses.

“Well, at least he ain’t lying unconscious.” He murmured to himself, as he knocked on the door.

“Go away.” Came the snarled retort.

“It’s Porthos.”

There was a pause, then Athos’ voice came again, resigned, rather than relieved as he gave permission to enter. Bracing himself, Porthos pushed open the door and carefully closed it behind him before turning around.

 Athos stood in the middle of the room, his face pink with washing, and his hair neatly brushed and each foot sported a new wool stocking.

 But the rest of him was in utter disarray.

His shirt hung unlaced, his braies were on but the ties were hanging loose, his legs were encased in breeches, which he had not even attempted to button. He had managed to force his stump into one sleeve of his doublet but the other sleeve lay uselessly across his back as he clearly struggled to catch it.

Frustrated, and not a little embarrassed, at his predicament he greeted Porthos with a scowl.

“Where are my boots?”

“Got ‘em right here,” Porthos said peaceably, holding them up. “D’Artagnan polished ‘em up right nicely.”

“I can polish my own dammed boots.” Athos scowled.                                                                               

“No, you can’t.” Porthos stated flatly.

He felt a pang of sympathy as he watched Athos stiffen and then go quite pale, before he flushed deeply at the perceived insult. However, Porthos pressed on, before his Captain could find a sharp retort, he had a point to make here.

“The Captain doesn’t polish his own boots and d’Artagnan may not be the newest recruit any more, but he’s the one with the most energy, so you’re doing the rest of us a favour by keepin’ him occupied.”

Athos pressed his lips together, looking uncomfortable as he realized he had over reacted.

“Not to mention, he loves you something fierce,” Porthos added, softening his tone as he came forward to stand before Athos, putting the boots down. “And it makes him happy to feel he can ease your way a little.”

“D’Artagnan is not my servant.” Athos said flatly.

“Neither am I,” Porthos said matter of fact, as he came around the back of Athos and helped him put his arm into his sleeve. “Luckily for you I’ll still sort you out, even when you’re being a right ornery git. Put your hand on my shoulder.”

Meekly accepting the rebuke, Athos did as he was bid, as Porthos knelt down and helped him put first one foot, and then the other, into the newly polished boots.

“Might as well take care of this whilst I’m down here,” Porthos threw Athos a cheeky grin as he began to lace up his braies and button his breeches. “I’m assuming you managed to have a piss? Or do I really need to take you in in hand?”

His coarseness startled a bark of laughter out of Athos, just as Porthos had intended, and much of the tension melted out of him. Rising to his feet Porthos smiled fondly as his brother.

"What you need, my friend, is a valet.” He said, even as he began buttoning his doublet.

 "Must you persist with this?" Athos sighed softly. "I don't want a servant."

"There's no shame in it. Treville had a valet and he had two good hands. Being the Captain’s no small task. You’ll want someone to help keep all the letters and dispatches in order as well as seeing to your personal needs,” Porthos pointed out. “And your kindness could do another good. It doesn’t have to be about one of you being any better than the other.”

“It’s not that.” Athos looked uncomfortable.

“Then tell me.” Porthos encouraged kindly. “’Cos, right now you’re struggling, brother and it ain’t in me to leave you suffering when I see a way to help.”

“When I was a child I was sometimes forced to wear two or three outfits in a day,” Athos admitted. “Whichever servant was free would be dispatched to un-dress and re-dress me. Since I could not possibly be trusted to do it for myself you understand, every last button had to be ‘just so’. I was expected to stand still as a I was stripped and dressed with no more attention to my feelings than if I was a doll. My only task was to move my limbs in accordance with my instructions. And feel the sting of the rod if I did not comply fast enough.”

“Aw, hell, Ath.” Porthos’ heart ached for the shy, sensitive, child Athos had been.

“Sometimes, they sent up someone I barely knew, or they would get so caught up in their gossip they would leave me standing there all but naked, shivering and mortified that anyone who came by might see me."

“This wouldn’t be like that,” Porthos encouraged. “Francois is a right good lad.” 

“Francois, do you mean Francois Garnon?” Athos blinked.

“You didn’t think we’d ever trust your well-being to some stranger did you?” Porthos smiled gently at him. “Francois’ got his head on straight and he has enough book learning to keep your papers in order and see to the day to day running of things.”

Francois Garnon was the only son of Phillipe Garnon, the regiment’s ostler. Athos had a sudden flash of memory of the lad as he had been when he first met him. Seven years ago he had been a bright eyed streak of a boy of ten, with a gap in his teeth, standing on tip toe as he helped his father groom the horses.

But Phillipe had wanted more for his only son. He had worked and sacrificed to send him to school. Athos strongly suspected Trevillle had also helped out in some fashion. Happening upon the youngster in the stables, frowning at his Latin grammar as he cleaned a bridle, Athos had found himself automatically correcting his mis-pronounciation, which had led to impromptu tutoring sessions and Athos lending out his own small library of novels and poetry.

Athos had continued to regard the young man he had grown into with immense fondness. As solutions went, it was a stroke of genius.

“You know Phillipe, with all his aches and pains, ain’t getting any younger and there are still the three girls at home,” Porthos coaxed. “Francois is determined to leave off his schooling so he can step up and take care of the family. Daft beggar is thinking that with war coming he should enlist.”

Athos frowned. Francis was gangly, pale and thin. A worse specimen for a soldier he couldn’t possibly imagine. He would be dead within weeks.

“Do not imagine for one moment I don’t know what you are doing.” He fixed Porthos with a dark look.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Porthos assured him. “You’ve always been bright, when you don’t have your head stuck up your arse. François needs a position and, like it or not, you need a helping hand.”

Harnessing his brother’s inate compassion for those less fortunate was a shameless ploy to overcome his stubborn pride. But Porthos could not bring himself to feel sorry for it. He was actually slightly surprised when, rather than acquiescing straight away, Athos turned his back on him and walked over to the window. His back ramrod straight and his shoulders stiff.

“You’re not going to let this go are you?” He asked tonelessly.

“No, I’m sorry, I really can’t, I love you too dearly,” Porthos was truly regretful in the face of his brother's raw pain. “You need this, Ath. And when I am sent into battle I need to know that you have someone on hand when you need ‘em that me and the others can trust to see through you. Because you've never been good at seeing to your own welfare."”

Athos stood quietly for a moment. Porthos waited, recognizing his need to order his thoughts. Finally, he cast a look over his shoulder.

“You had better bring him up then.”

Porthos’ answering grin lit up his whole face, making Athos feel slightly better about what he was about to do. Even so, his stomach still tightened slightly and he felt himself bracing, as if for a fight, as Porthos’ sharp whistle on the balcony brought light footsteps hurrying eagerly up the stairs.

Athos found he could not bring himself to turn.

“Captain?”

The use of his rank, together with the slight hesitancy in Porthos’ tone told Athos that his brother had noticed how his good hand had clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles were bleached white. Steeling himself Athos arranged his face into a blank mask and stepped into the centre of the room.

“Francois,” He acknowledged the young man with a small nod. “I assume Porthos has told you why you are here?”

"Yes, Athos, I mean, yes Captain,  um, Sir,” The young man blushed hotly at his faux pax. “He said you needed a valet but you didn’t want some Palace dandy. He thought you and I might rub along well enough given half a chance.”

Porthos closed his eyes in despair at Francois bluntness. God willing Athos would be amused rather than offended.

“Perhaps.” Athos reply was utterly tonelessly.

As Porthos watched Athos began to slowly unbutton his doublet with his right hand, his expression so proud and haughty that Porthos dared not offer his assistance. Once it was cast aside Athos then used his good hand to pull his shirt over his head, with a sharp tug, so that he stood bare chested.

"Does this repulse you?" He nodded at the stump of his arm.

Porthos immediately closed his eyes in mortification. It had never even occurred to him that one of the reasons his brother had been so set against getting a manservant was because he feared their scorn at attending a cripple.

“No, not at all, sir," Francois replied, with just the right balance of respect and candour. "As I understand matters, you lost your arm in the service of the King, all of France stands in your debt."

"I may need .. additional .. assistance with certain tasks," Athos pressed on, his expression impassive, the two high spots of colour in his cheeks the only sign of his embarrassment at such an admission. "Beyond what might normally be expected of a gentleman’s valet. You may feel your education places you above such menial tasks."

Porthos held his breath. This was the moment when he had to trust Francois to strike the right note.

“Athos, when I was a child you took the time to sit with me and go through my lessons. You listened to my hopes and dreams. You were my protector when the other boys mocked my humble origins and you taught me to be proud of who I am," Francois spoke from the heart. "I can never repay such un-looked for kindness. But if I can now do you even the smallest service it shall be my honour and privilege to do so.”

“You may have cause to re-consider that statement when you are cutting my toenails.” Athos said dryly. Even as his eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Then I’ll distract myself by conjugating Latin verbs,” Francois gave a bright, quicksilver grin, which reminded Athos rather sharply of D'Artagnan. “Rest assured, I shall endeavour to always attend on you to the very best of my ability.”

Porthos’ heart soared at witnessing the beginning of what was obviously going to become a very special relationship.

“Very well,” Athos acquiesced. “The position is yours, on one condition. This is not negotiable; you understand?”

 “Yes, sir?” Francois straightened up expectantly.  

"My duties as Captain of this Regiment will frequently confine me to this office. During those times you will devote your time to continuing your education. I will pay for whatever books and materials I deem you require. In due course I will speak to Treville about finding you a position in one of the departments at the Palace. Contrary, to popular opinion they are always in need of educated young men."

"Oh, Athos," Francois was obviously quite overcome by such unexpected largess. Stepping forward he wrapped his arms tightly around Athos' waist as he drew him into a tight hug. “Thank you. Thank you, so much.” He said a little breathlessly. “You are indeed the very kindest and best of men.”

 Athos looked slightly surprised, but rather touched by effusive affection, as he patted the young man’s back fondly.

"Report to my office first thing tomorrow, to take up your duties."

 Suddenly realizing he might have over stepped the mark Francois hastily stepped back, blushing furiously and pulling self-consciously at his doublet.

 "Sorry, Athos, Sir. Captain.” Francois winced as he tripped over his honorifics yet again.

 "We're  going to be spending a lot of time together," Athos allowed kindly. "Captain or Athos will suffice.”

Porthos watched with a fond smile as Francois took his leave. Still quite unable to hide his delight. For his part Athos settled himself behind his desk, as if he had done nothing remarkable at all. Without a word, Porthos crossed to the cabinet and poured out two glasses of Treville's very best Almanac which he had somehow overlooked to re-locate.

"You do realise that is the Minister of War's personal supplies that you are pilfering?" Athos asked, without looking up from his paperwork.

"I reckon he'd understand," Porthos replied, knowing full well that, if Treville had been here, he would have been just as fiercely proud of Athos as Porthos was right now. He placed the drink gently by Athos' elbow, before holding his own glass in a toast. "You're a good man, Athos.”

“It would be selfish in the extreme to repay the love and care you gentlemen have shown me during my recovery by causing you to worry,” Athos allowed. “This war will not be easily won. I will not have you distracted.”

“You know, we’ll always worry about you,” Porthos allowed. “But it makes my heart right glad to know Francois will be by your side when we are called away.”

“And I, will always worry about all of you, especially when it’s my orders which sends you into danger,” Athos smiled sadly. “It’s the price we pay for love I suppose.”

 A rap on the door made them both look up. D’Artagnan burst in, with a frown on his face.

“Word just came from the Palace, we’re wanted at once.”

“That can’t be good,” Porthos worried. “We weren’t due to report until the change of watch.”

 “The Spanish Ambassador has requested an audience with the King, apparently to parly about securing the peace,” d’Artagnan’s lips settled into a thin, unhappy, line.

 “They’re trying to deflect attention from Rochefort’s espoionage and make France seem like the aggressor.” Athos realised.

 “Its worse than that,” d’Artagnan looked straight at Athos. “Treville sent word of the Spanish Ambassador’s entourage. Ortiz is with them.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s not alone. Not while I draw breath, he ain’t,” Porthos spoke up. “You want to fight someone? Try me.”

Athos’ feelings did not show in his carefully schooled features. Nor in his commanding body language, the sharp staccato of his heels echoing on the marble as he strode down the corridor. Only the slight tightness of his jaw gave any indication, to those who knew him, that he had any anxiety at all about what was to come.

“This meeting is a waste of time,” d’Artagnan murmured on his right. “The King’s mind is already set on war.”

“The Spanish wish to pretend that his Majesty’s fondness for the Queen should be a reason to avoid conflict.” Athos countered without emotion.

“Fat chance of that,” Porthos scoffed. “The King’s already gone and spent a small fortune on commissioning new arms and such. He ain’t about to let that little lot go to waste now.”

“The Spanish know that,” Athos spared him a glance. “This is just another ploy to deflect attention from Rochefort’s treason and buy them more time to assemble their own forces.”

“Waste. Of. Time.” D’Artagnan re-iterated, not quite under his breath.

“Nevertheless, the quicker we hear them out, the quicker we can get back to the business of preparing France for war,” Athos observed dispassionately. “I doubt the Ambassador has been given any leeway to negotiate.”

“The man comes from a family distinguished enough not to cause any actual offence. However, he is old enough to be your grandfather,” Aarmis gave a tight grin at his Captain’s scowl at the description. “But any influence he might once had wielded over the Crown has long since waned.”

In unspoken accord, they all pulled themselves up to attention as the guards opened the door to the audience chamber.

Inside, the King was sitting on the throne, oblivious to their arrival, as for once he was actually paying attention to proceedings. The Queen was conspicuous by her absence. Trevillle stood to one side frowning slightly, as an elderly man, by his dress clearly the Spanish Ambassador, was speaking in low tones.

And, in a cluster, over by the door, were the other members of the Spanish contingent.

“Ortiz.” D’Artagnan hissed.

Aramis and Porthos hands’ clamped down on him before he could move more than a half step out of formation. Athos looked towards the throne. Blessedly the King did not seem to have noticed the breech of etiquette. Although, Treville’s frown had deepened slightly. Taking a step to the right, so as to place himself bodily between the Spanish Captain and their fiery young Gascon, Athos lifted his chin and looked the man in the eye.

“Ortiz.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a wordless glance. Everything about Athos’ greeting, from the lack of a bow, his refusal to use the man’s rank, and the cool, disdainful tone in which it was issued, every inch the Comte de la Frere, was calculated to insult.

“So, the rumours were true, you do live,” Ortiz sneered. His let his eyes track down to the empty sleeve. “Although, somewhat diminished from before. How kind of his Majesty to retain your services, rather than casting you out into the streets. Still, I suppose every regiment needs a mascot.”

“That’s our Captain, you’re addressing,” Porthos spoke with quiet menace, as he stepped forward a pace, his hand very deliberately on his sword. “Show some respect.”

“You still retain your rank?” Ortiz’ brows shot up. Then he swept off his hat and gave a deep, mocking, bow. “My sincerest apologies, I had not realised that the French were so hard up for fighting men that they were using cripples.”

“And yet despite his recent injury,” Aramis stressed the word, as he spoke in a deadly voice, so unlike his usual charm. “Every man in the Regiment would still follow him to hell and back for the love they bear him. Can the same be said for you?” 

“My men would never dare disobey my orders.” Ortiz sneered.

“Your men follow you out of fear, not love,” d’Artagnan spoke up, a little too loudly. “I could run you through right now and not one of them will mourn your loss.” 

The King looked up curiously at the commotion.

“D’Artagnan?” He waved a hand. “Do you know this man?”

Porthos closed his eyes, Aramis sighed, Athos held his protégé’s gaze for a split second before giving a minute nod.

D’Artagnan stood to attention as he stepped forward.

“Captain Ortiz here was the leader of the Spanish company who killed five of your Musketeers on the French side of the border and then dragged the rest of us into Spain to use as hostages, sire.” D’Artagnan’s tone was soft with suppressed fury. “He was personally responsible for Captain Athos’ recent injuries.”

“Is that so?” Louis’ face darkened at that in a way that did not bode well for Ortiz. “What say you, Athos?”

“Captain Ortiz is entirely without honour, Your Majesty” Athos responded flatly. “He is not to be trusted.”

“A damning indictment from one of my most loyal men,” Louis looked coolly at Ortiz. “How do you defend yourself, Captain?”

“Your Majesty,” Ortiz spoke up. “I serve my King loyally, that is all. Surely such is the duty of a soldier?”

“Athos, he’s wearing your sword!” 

The words escaped d’Artagnan before he could stop them. Flushing slightly under Treville’s disapproving gaze and Athos’ sharp look, he bit his lip.

“Merely a spoil of war,” Ortiz interjected haughtily. 

“You forget, we ain’t actually at war yet?” Porthos growled.

“Captain Athos gave it up so readily I could not imagine it had any particular significance,” Ortiz’ thin smile promised nothing good. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered that it had been his father’s sword. Received as personal gift from your Majesty’s own father for saving his life.”

The barb hit home, as it was meant to. Louis’ frown turned disapproving at the thought that the royal gift had apparently been carelessly cast aside.

“Your Majesty, if I may?” d’Artagnan waited for a nod of permission before continuing. “After we were captured Captain Ortiz refused to allow the company bread or water. I was forced to traded my sword with one of his men merely to secure basic rations. That sword had belonged to my late father. You will recall that LaBarge razed my family farm in Gascony to the ground. Everything I had was within those walls. I have nothing else to remind me of him so it is extremely dear to me. Athos sacrificed his sword for my sake.”

D’Artagnan paused, casting a rueful look at his mentor.

“I did not realise that it carried such a proud heritage. Although, rest assured that Athos acted out of love for me rather than disdain for the Royal gift. I can never repay such a debt but I will be forever thankful for his sacrifice.”

The love shining in his eyes could leave none present in any doubt of his utter sincerity.

“Well said, d’Artagan, well said indeed,” To Ortiz’ obvious annoyance Louis actually applauded the sentiment. “Prisoners held in French hands would never receive such shameful treatment I can assure you, Ambassador that a son should have to give up such a precious memento to secure sufficient victuals merely that the company keep body and soul together.” 

“Perhaps, now Captain Ortiz understands the significance of the sword he might be good enough to return it?” Aramis suggested with deceptive mildness.

“A capital idea,” Louis agreed. The cool look he levelled at Ortiz giving his words the force of a command. “I am sure the Captain would not wish to hold onto the sword, now that he understands our personal interest in the matter? It would be a sign of faith between our two realms towards this peace you claim you desire.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ortiz gave a small, insincere, bow. “However, why not take the opportunity to have a little sport? Perhaps, a small contest would settle the matter?” The man’s eyes dropped to the rapier on Athos’ hip. “Since your Captain presumes to come armed into your King’s presence I assume he still knows how to use it? Let the honour of France be satisfied in a duel. First blood declares the victor.”

“A duel you say?” Louis’ eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect.

“Your Majesty, this is utter madness,” Treville cut in. “Captain Athos has already sacrificed a great deal at Captain Ortiz’s hands in the name of France. As his sovereign I beg you not to allow it.”

“If the Captain had any other kin to defend his honour I would gladly demand satisfaction from them,” Ortiz’s tone dripped insincerity. It was obvious that the bastard was enjoying this. “What a pity he is all alone in this world.”

As one Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan all moved closer to Athos, so that they stood shoulder to shoulder in a visible show of unity. 

“He’s not alone. Not while I draw breath, he ain’t,” Porthos spoke up. “You want to fight someone? Try me.”

“Your Majesty, I am a son of one of the oldest houses in Spain you can hardly think my honour would be satisfied by duelling with a common soldier,” Ortiz scoffed in deliberate insult. “And one of such obviously base origins at that.”

“I am no common solider, I’m a Musketeer,” Porthos vowed with quiet menace. “And besides that, my father was the Baron de Belgard. If we’re going to be bandying titles about I reckon I outrank you.”

“Is that true, Treville?” Louis looked surprised. “Why did we not know of this?” 

“It is correct, Your Majesty,” Treville allowed. “The exact relationship only came to light quite recently.”

“His mongrel offspring no doubt.” Ortiz sneered.

“And yet,” Louis straightened up in his chair, as he spoke tartly. “As he said a Musketeer. I would thank you to remember that Captain.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Oritiz bowed. “I was merely lamenting the fact that the Comte de la Frere has no actual blood relatives. Since his father is deceased and his only brother brutally murdered, by his wife’s own hand I believe.”

It was clear that Ortiz hoped to provoke trouble for Athos by dragging up his past. For his part Treville thanked God that he had seen fit to advise Louis of Athos’ true status before he was commissioned. The King had been so excited to have the man renowned as the best swordsman in all of France in his regiment, that he had readily agreed to Athos desire for anonymity. 

Of course, he had then promptly forgotten which one of his Musketeers the Comte de le Frere actually was. It had taken that business with the Duke of Savoy to remind him. 

“Dear God is that also true?” Louis recoiled slightly. “I hope the woman was punished for her crime?”

“As I understand things your Majesty,” Treville swiftly intervened. The good Lord knew there was no need to go digging into that open wound. If the King discovered he had been sharing his bed with an assassin, who was also Athos’ wife, it was hard to know which prospect he would find most terrifying. “Captain Athos saw to her punishment as was his duty as the Comte de la Frere.”

“Your Majesty,” Aramis bowed low. “I have no claim to noble lineage but Athos and I have lived and fought and bled together in your service. He is my brother in every way that matters. It would be my honour to represent him in this matter.”

“I do so admire loyalty, it is a measure of Athos’ great merit that he inspires such fervent regard in his men,” Louis considered. “I believe the Musketeer Aramis would make a worthy champion. Don’t you agree, Captain Ortiz?”

“Your Majesty, I beg your indulgence,” Ortiz looked apologetic. “But I must decline. The Musketeer Aramis has Spanish blood in his veins. It would be like going up against one of my own countrymen.”

“I am French and wholly loyal to France.” Aramis protested, a little wildly.

“Aramis suffered great slander at Rochefort’s hands,” Treville spoke up. “That the Spanish will continue to perpetuate that gives the lie to the fact that they knew nothing of his machinations.”

“Captain Ortiz does not speak for the Spanish Crown,” The Amassador was quick to reassure, casting the man in question a sour glance. “Rochefort was a man turned mad by his own delusions. No slur should be placed on the character of the Musketeer Aramis due to his false accusations.” 

“And yet it seems his Majesty can put forward no Champion with a lineage worthy of my own.” Ortiz sighed.

“I am Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony.” d’Artagnan drew his sword part way out of its scabbard. “I assume you will not dispute my lineage?”

“Are you truly suggesting my honour could be satisfied by crossing swords with such a beardless boy?” Ortiz waved a contemptuous hand at d’Artagnan. “Is the Captain of the King’ Musketeers such a brave warrior that he needs children to fight his battles for him?”

It was not a good move. 

“If you recall Captain, we came into our inheritance when we were but a child,” Louis said stiffly. “I hope you are not suggesting that our youth was any barrier to our ability. D’Artagnan here is our own Champion. He has more than proved his merit in our service.” 

“You gave me your word.” Athos murmured to d'Artagnan. Cool and resolute..

“I know, I know,” d’Artagnan acknowledged sotto voice. “But surely in the circumstances you will see fit to release me from my vow. Ortiz cannot be allowed to get way with what he has done. I beg you, let me do this.”

Athos reached out and cupped his hand around d’Artagnan’s neck, the roughness of his sword callouses brushing over the delicate downy skin.

“Not a chance in hell.” He said, his voice soft with love. 

“Your Majesty,” With a last fond, look at d’Artagnan he stepped forward, drawing himself up tall and proud, every inch the Comte he was born to be. “I accept Captain Ortiz’s challenge. I will gladly settle this matter in a duel.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I suppose you’ve taught him how to load a pistol with only one hand?” Treville shot a scathing look at Aramis.

The King sat up ramrod straight in his chair as he looked Athos up and down. As his gaze came to rest on the empty sleeve of his left arm he gave a small shudder at the grisly sight. Behind Athos the others exchanged looks of concern. If Louis recoiled from allowing Athos to actually fight the future of his Captaincy would surely be in danger.

Raising a hand Louis beckoned Athos forward so they could speak without being overheard by the Spanish. And then he displayed something of that true Majesty which occasionally allowed them all to hope that he would one day grow into a fine ruler.

“Your King will not ask this of you, Captain. You have always served us with the utmost loyalty, most recently at great personal sacrifice. You have no need to prove anything to us, Athos.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Athos inclined his head slightly in respect. “Your continued faith and trust does me great honour.”

“Now, as to this matter in hand,” Louis continued briskly, oblivious to Treville’s faint wince at his poor choice of words. “You are but recently returned from the boarder. If you are not yet fully recovered from your injuries there would be no shame in allowing one of your fellows to take your place. Despite his protestations Captain Ortiz will not dare defy my direct command.”

“Again, I stand in your debt, sire. But this matter is between Captain Ortiz and myself. By your leave, I will face him myself.”

“Your Majesty, might I have a moment to speak with Captain Athos?” Treville’s tone did not bode well.

“As you wish.” Louis nodded.

Treville was only able to hold onto his temper for the few moments it took him to pull Atho to one side, speaking in a fierce whisper that did nothing to diminish his clear fury.

“What _madness_ is this?” He hissed. “Ortiz is one of the finest swordsmen in the whole of Spain, not some dammed raw recruit.”

“I still have my sword arm,” Athos pointed out stubbornly. “I can fight as well as I ever did.”

“Not with your left hanging down like a dead weight,” Treville said bluntly. “It will affect your balance and mobility.”

“I can assure you it will not.”

“You can’t be possibly know that.”

“Eh, I might ‘ave had something to do with that,” Porthos spoke up, Treville turned his glare in his direction. “I’ve been working with Athos on how to centre his balance and keep his footing so he can compensate for what’s no longer there.”

“And I suppose you’ve taught him how to load a pistol with only one hand?” Treville shot a scathing look at Aramis.

“Well no,” Aramis acknowledged. “But I have ensured that his aim is straight and true. Better even as he always did list a little to the left. Its helped to ensure that his awareness of the space around him is as good as ever."

"And what about you?” Treville eyed d’Artagnan resignedly. “I cannot imagine you have sat idly by in this foolishness.”

“Athos asked me to drill him in sword work,” d’Artagnan stood tall, his evident pride in being able to help his best friend something it would take a harder man than Treville to tear down. “We would practice in cemeteries so we would not be observed. Once he became accustomed to his .. situation there was less to do than either of us had imagined. His mind still knew how to fight and his body wasn’t that far behind.” 

“It seems as if you’ve been busy.” Treville gave Athos an unreadable look.

“Only as my other duties allowed.” Athos acknowledged mildly.

“I suppose I should have expected nothing less,” Treville shook his head. He looked sharply at d’Artagnan. “Is he good enough to best Ortiz?”

D’Artagnan shared an amused look with Athos at being asked to critique his mentor’s skill. But when he spoke there was not a trace of smugness, just a touch of quiet pride.

“He’s worked hard for it. He’s more than good enough.”

Treville could not believe he was even considering allowing this. But he did not have it in to deny the soft light of hope in Athos’ eyes. God knows, he understood how much the man _needed_ , to be the one to do this. And he knew his brothers tender regard for him was such that they would not be encouraging it unless they believed he could prevail.

“Very well,” He sighed. Taking a moment to look at his Captain, he remembered when he had laid the Duke of Savoy out at the feet of the King himself. “This time your duty is to humiliate him to the full extent of your abilities.”

“Duly noted.” Athos inclined his head.

“Gettin’ thrashed by a one-armed man,” Porthos grinned, as he began helping Athos out of his doublet. “I reckon that’s enough to ruin most reputations.”

“Although, a few disfiguring scars wouldn’t go amiss.” Aramis suggested cheerfully, as he relieved Athos of his muskets.

Athos’ gaze was drawn to d’Artagnan who had remained uncharacteristically silent.

“Nothing to add?”

“If it was down to me I’d run him through for what he did to you.” d’Artagnan spoke with quiet fury.

“Says the man who showed mercy to his father’s killer so he could have justice rather than revenge.” Aramis spoke lightly, reminding then all of that ill-fated duel with Gaudet.

“Gaudet still died by my hand.” D’Artagnan insisted.

“Because of his own actions, not yours,” Porthos put a soothing hand on his shoulder. “You were the one who told his Majesty you were a solider not an executioner.”

“And this is not your fight,” Athos said firmly. “None of this was your fault. It seems as if I cannot tell you that often enough.”

Aramis rocked back on his heels as he exchanged a telling look with Porthos. They should have realised d’Artagnan would not let his part in Athos’ injury go easily.

“Sometimes, things simply happen, they ain’t anyone’s fault.”

Porthos’ words were intended for d’Artagnan’s ears, but he could not resist shooting a look at Athos. He had been trying to tell the other man the same things for years now.

Across the room Ortiz had also stripped to his shirtsleeves and was was doing a few practice thrusts and lunges with an admirable amount of precision that was clearly calculated to intimidate.

Aramis was slightly surprised to see Athos frowning with concern.

“Something wrong?”

“This floor,” Athos slid his boot along the highly polished wooden parquet in demonstration. "It’s too smooth, too slippery. It will throw my balance off.”

“That’s not good.” D’Artagnan looked dismayed. It would give Ortiz far too much of an advantage. “Do you think we could persuade the King to move things outside?”

“Not in this weather,” Porthos shook his head. “It’s freezing out there.”

“Perhaps, there is another solution.” Athos reflected.

The look on Ortiz’ face when Athos came to stand before him, dressed simply in breaches and shirtsleeves, with his feet completely bare, was predictably scornful.

“Are you looking to lose another limb?”

Behind him, Athos heard a chorus of outraged gasps and protests. Even the Spanish Ambassador, looked offended.

“Captain Ortiz, you will kindly remember that you carry the honour of Spain and conduct yourself accordingly.”

“My apologies, Ambassador,” Ortiz bowed. “I was just expressing my concern that the Captain might incur further injury.”

“Sure you were.” Porthos muttered.

Ortiz gave him a venomous look. But Louis responded with a snort of laughter, amused by his outrageousness, so he had to visibly force himself to curb any response.

“Shall we begin?” He demanded impatiently.

Aramis put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. Looking him in the eye to ensure he had his full attention.

“Remember, what you taught our hot headed little Gascon. Let your head rule you heart, hmm?”

“I won’t kill him,” Athos sighed. Then he smiled dangerously. “I may cut off his balls.”

Aramis spluttered into delighted laughter. It always amused him when polite, _proper_ , Athos chose to be coarse. He slapped his brother warmly on the shoulder.  

“That would count as first blood, I suppose.”

As they drew back to the fringes of the room to give the two men room to fight, d’Artagnan gripped Aramis by the arm and spoke in a furious hiss.

“What was that all about?” He demanded angrily. “Of course, he’s going to kill him.”

He might have reluctantly conceded that it was Athos’ right to settle the matter. Had even talked himself into believing that it did not truly matter as long as Ortiz met his end. But he had never expected Athos to actually  _spare_ him.

“Oh, he’ll want to kill him, alright,” Porthos affirmed, from his other side. “Not even for ‘imself either. Ortiz killed men under his command. Men he respected and admired. Men whose families he had to write to and tell them they were not coming home. Knowing Athos, he’ll be feeling that even more heavily than his own loss.”

“But he’s the Captain of the King’s Musketeers. If he kills Ortiz in a duel in front of the King himself, the Spanish will have no choice but to declare war at once and France isn’t ready for that. Hundreds of good men would be sent into battle to be needlessly slaughtered because we don’t have the supplies or munitions to support them. Athos won’t allow that to happen merely to satisfy his own need for revenge.”

“So, he just gets off scot free?” d’Artagnan protested.

“Not bloody likely.” Porthos said darkly.

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to ask exactly what he meant by that when Aramis touched d’Artagnan’s shoulder and nodded in the direction of the watching Spanish contingent.

“I doubt the Ambassador will paint Ortiz’s behaviour today in a particularly favourable light. Once the Spanish King hears he lost to a one-armed man how secure do you imagine his own command with be? He’ll be lucky to be put in charge of digging the latrines.”

"They're ready." Porthos straightened.

In the centre of the room, the two men squared off and then began to fight. From the first the bout was fast and hard. Knowing that his stamina would be his greatest weakness, Athos was clearly not intending to allow Ortiz to draw this out.

D’Artagnan felt quite sick with nerves on his brother’s behalf. He wondered if this was what Athos had felt like, watching him go up against LaBarge. He knew that Athos had the skill to beat the Spanish Captain, but there was no telling what a man as ruthless as Ortiz might attempt, and in a fight the smallest thing could tip the balance in either man’s favour.

There was not a sound in the throne room except the clash of blades. Athos face was set with concentration, sweat already gathering on his brow. But he was meeting every cut and thrust of Ortiz’s blade with grim determination.

Then there was an audible gasp from the King as Ortiz’s blade flashed out and he tried to take Athos out at the knees.

Athos jumped over the sweeping blade and retailed with a flurry of movement that pushed Ortiz back towards the corner of the room.

Ortiz turned on his heel, re-directing the fight as he sliced his sword down and across, narrowly missing cutting a deep score across Athos’ ribs.

But in his bid to avoid being cut Athos staggered back a single step and in the space between one breath and the next Ortiz lunged, all thoughts of first blood clearly forgotten.

There was murder in his eyes as his sword headed directly for Athos’ throat.

Then two things happened.

Athos ducked sideways, to try and evade the blow and, as he pivoted to compensate, Ortiz slipped.

It was almost comical. His eyes went wide as he realised he was losing his equilibrium. His blade went wide, as his arms instinctively spread to try and keep his balance, as his feet moved inexorably further and further apart until he toppled sideways, the point of his sword embedding itself into the wooden floor with the full force of his momentum, as he fell on his arse.

As Athos very deliberately advanced towards him, he tried to scramble backwards, out of reach, only to come up hard against the wall.

“You can’t kill me,” He protested, his voice high with panic, as Athos levied his blade at his throat. “It will be an act of war.”

Athos, very deliberately, moved the point of his sword to hover over his groin.

“I would cut off your balls, but I do not believe you have any.”

“ _Bastardo._ ” Ortiz swore.

With a graceful flick of his wrist, Athos made a small, but deep, cut across Ortiz’ left arm, causing the man to hiss in pain.

“First blood to me, I believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed the concept of the slippery floor from Athos' S1 ep 4 fight with the Duke of Savoy where Tom Burke had to wear his Nikes because the parquet floor in the place where they were filming was too highly polished. If you look carefully at certain frames you can actually see them!
> 
> Only a few chapters to go now.


	31. chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Actually,” Athos looked around at these people, who had been by his side throughout his entire ordeal. Who had never faltered in their loyalty or judged him for his moments of weakness. Who had not given him a moment’s doubt as to the depth and steadfastness of their love. Any walls he had ever built up against their steadfast affection had been long since vanquished. “I am a little tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting. Work has been very demanding. Almost there now.

Louis’ loud clapping and repeated calls of “Bravo!” were instantly joined by the hearty endorsements of Athos’ brothers, the Minister of War, all of the Musketeers on guard duty, and finally, looking distinctly pained, the rather more strained applause of the Spanish.

In the centre of the room Athos wiped his sword on the hem of his shirt, ducking his head a little, as he gave the quick flash of a satisfied smile.

“I’d be careful with that,” Grinning broadly, Porthos was the first to step forward as he lent over Ortiz to view the sluggishly bleeding wound. “Cuts can be right nasty, if you don’t get them cleaned up just right. You could get an infection. Might even lose that limb.”

“I do believe that _this_ belongs to Athos,” With a distinct air of satisfaction, Aramis used both hands to pull the sword free from where it was firmly embedded in the floor and waggled it in Ortiz’ eye line. “Despite clearly being a man of low principles you were going to honour a wager made in the presence of King of France himself, I assume?”

D’Artagnan was next. His face dark with tightly contained fury as he confronted the man who had caused his best friend such untold harm, his hand resting dangerously on the pommel of his sword.

Sprawled on the floor, his lips initially curled in a sneer, blood seeping between his fingers where he had clamped his hand over the wound, whatever he saw in d’Artagnan’s eyes had Ortiz skittering backwards in fear, until he came up hard against the wall.

Aramis took d’Artagnan firmly by his sword arm, effectively preventing him from drawing as he spoke plainly.

“This is neither the time and nor the place.”

His tone made it clear the words were an order. They all knew any retaliation against Ortiz, when he was already downed and wounded, in full view of the Spanish Ambassador, could only lead to trouble.

Stubbornly, not removing his right hand from his sword hilt, d’Artagnan instead used his left to pull a handkerchief from inside his doublet and held it up. 

“My father raised me to have honour so I’ll show you greater compassion that you showed us,” he spoke coldly, before he let it flutter slowly down onto Ortiz chest. “You can use that to staunch the blood loss with my compliments.”

Even so, Aramis had to almost pull him off his feet to get him moving backwards, his eyes still locked firmly on Ortiz’s face.

“Your Majesty ..” Ortiz spluttered, as he struggled to his feet, one hand clasping the handkerchief to his bleeding arm. No-one moved to help him. “This was not a fair fight .. the floor..”

“The situation was entirely of your own making, Captain.  You proposed the duel. You cannot protest merely because Athos came out the victor,” Louis was dismissive. “You may leave us now, we shall continue our discussions tomorrow.”

“But your Majesty, the Spanish King would really prefer ..” The Ambassador attempted.

“Your King asked for this audience Ambassador. We did not request it. Therefore, your business _will_ wait until tomorrow,” Louis’ tone was clipped. “You and your entourage are dismissed.”

As the Spanish finally withdrew, a glowering Ortiz trailing behind them, Aramis’ brow creased into a frown. There was trouble brewing there. Ortiz might have been bested but he was far from defeated.

As the doors finally closed behind them, Athos’ shoulders visibly sagged and he used his good arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. Only to find himself almost knocked off his feet as Porthos threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly and rocking him from side to side as he pounded him on the back.

“You bloody marvel.” He crowed.

He mussed Athos hair fondly, before kneeling down to help him back into his stockings and boots. With a hand resting on Pothos shoulder to balance him, Athos glanced over and caught d’Artagnan’s eye, his grin so bright with joy that all their hours of sword training had paid off, that the younger man thought his heart might burst with pride and affection. 

For his part, Aramis gave a formal little bow, his hand pressed firmly over his heart and his eyes shining with love, as he handed back his Captain’s muskets, waiting until his brother had safely stowed them, before he startled a huff of laughter out of him by gripping him by the shoulders and kissing him soundly on both cheeks.

“Are you alright?” His eyes narrowed as he looked Athos over, carefully searching for any injuries. “His blade hit your left side with some force?”

“Just bruised, I think,” Athos wasn’t remotely surprised Aramis had noticed that. “Nothing I haven’t had before.”

On the other side of the room, Louis had been watching all these proceedings with interest.

“His men truly love him, do they not Treville?” The King observed, a touch of melancholy in his tone. “Not because of his rank or status but entirely due to the measure of the man.”

“Athos is a steadfast friend, a great warrior and a brilliant swordsman, your Majesty,” Treville agreed, he cast a sidelong glance at the young Monarch weighting his words just so. “He has never demanded their loyalty but he has nonetheless earned it by his own actions.”

“Indeed.” Louis looked thoughtful.

Wisely, Treville held his peace. It was enough that the seed had been planted.

Across the room, d’Artagnan was now carefully helping Athos back into his doublet, the pair smiling fondly at each other as the Gascon made short work of buttoning it up, before putting a hand behind Athos’ head and drawing him in so their foreheads were touching. 

“Bravo, Captain.” He murmured.

“He fell over,” Athos reminded him, a familiar touch of self-depreciation in his tone. “I can hardly take credit for that.”

“Really?” As he pulled back d’Artagnan pretended to consider that. “Because I seem to remember my mentor sparring with me on the edge of a cliff, in order to drill into me the importance of knowing the terrain and using it to your advantage. If Ortiz had decided to remove his boots, he would not have slipped. In the end it was your superior tactics that won the day.”

“I suppose I can hardly argue when you use my own lessons against me,” Despite the grumble in his tone Athos’ expression was pleased and the hand he placed on the Gascon’s shoulder squeezed tightly in thanks. “Let us hope the King agrees.”

Louis as it turned out, was absolutely delighted by his morning’s entertainment. Effusive in his praise, he summoned up a large purse in reward and insisted Athos accept it.

“Do you remember our lessons when I was younger Treville?” He reminisced. “You soldier types are fortunate in being able to decide your own paths. We are quite certain we could have attained sufficient prowess with a sword to beat Ortiz ourselves, if we had not always had to attend to our duties as King. Don’t you agree Treville?”

“Practice is the keystone of honing any skill your Majesty.” The Minister said diplomatically as he thanked God his men were disciplined enough not to laugh out loud.

Dismissed from the Royal presence, the five men simply grinned at each other for a moment. Then Treville took his turn to draw Athos into a strong embrace.

“After a display like that I am more convinced than ever that I made the right choice to lead the Regiment to war.” He affirmed, his voice slightly ragged.

“I was fortunate,” Athos said modestly, as they broke apart. “Another time and Ortiz might have gained the upper hand.”

“Another time and you would have thought of something else,” Treville insisted. “That’s what a good leader does.”

“I have always trusted your judgement in all other things,” Athos considered. “Perhaps, I should stop fighting you on this. If we are to go to war the men will need a Captain who is fully committed to his role.”

“About dammed time you accepted that,” Treville beamed his approval. “So, what do plan to do with your reward money?”

“God’s teeth,” Porthos pulled out one of the coins and held it up. It was solid gold. “There must be a small fortune in here.”

“I would like it to go to the families of the men that Ortiz killed.” Athos’ wish surprised no-one.

“That’s a fine choice.” D’Artagnan spoke up, remembering how they had all done much the same for Pepin’s family.

“But unnecessary,” Treville assured him. The King had little idea of finances and as Minister of war no-one questioned where he directed the vast funds Louis had allocated to humiliating the French. “I was able to see that those families were amply provided for. In the circumstances I believe his Majesty would agree with my decision.”

“If you had bothered to ask him.” d’Artagnan said pointedly, earning himself a quelling look.

“Thank you,” Porthos was gratified to see that Treville continued to care for men that he himself had recruited. “I’m sure their families’ll appreciate it.”

“Minister.” Aramis intoned, a note of worry threading through his voice.

Athos sighed, wondering what on earth might be wrong now, before he realised it was probably him. As the rush of battle began to leave his muscles felt as weak as water and he was beginning to list to one side. Before he could give voice to his predicament d’Artagnans’ hand caught him deftly under the elbow. He looked up to see four pairs of eyes all viewing him with concern.

“Before you say a word, you’ve gone as white as a sheet.” Porthos was matter of fact. “And you look like a stiff breeze would be enough to topple you.”

“Actually,” Athos looked around at these people, who had been by his side throughout his entire ordeal. Who had never faltered in their loyalty or judged him for his moments of weakness. Who had not given him a moment’s doubt as to the depth and steadfastness of their love. Any walls he had built up against their steadfast love had been long since vanquished. “I am a little tired.”

To be fair that was something of an understatement. He felt totally spent. But even so, his friends looked startled, then pleased, by his honesty.

“Well then,” Porthos was the first to recover. “Best we get you home.”

“Go, all of you,” Treville ordered. “I’ll keep a weather eye on the Spanish. The King isn’t inclined to entertain any of their proposals. He’s only keeping them waiting to sow further amity. My guess is they’ll all be sent packing back to Spain in the morning.”

As the four men made their way back down the endless corridors and the numerous stairs of the Palace, Porthos took over from d’Artagnan, easily helping his Captain stay upright with a discreet hand at the back of his collar, whilst Aramis and d’Artagnan used their bodies to form a wall, shielding the exhausted man from any curious eyes. When they finally arrived at the place they had tethered the horses, no words were needed.

D'Artagnan mounted up first and then kicked his foot out of the stirrup, also offering his hand to make it easier for Athos to climb up behind him. To their left Aramis had already gathered up Roger to lead him home.

Only for Athos to hesitate.

“Don’t go being a stubborn fool,” Porthos told him brusquely. “Captain of the Regiment or not, you can barely stand. You’ve no business riding solo.”

“No, that’s not it,” Athos looked up at the short distance. It might as well have been a thousand leagues. “I don’t believe I have the strength.”

“Then we’ll just do this together,” Porthos decided. He called across the courtyard.  “Oi, Aramis, keep a watch. You see any Red Guards gawking, shoot ‘em.”

“With pleasure.” Aramis, already mounted on his own stallion, with Roger standing placidly at his side, grinned tightly.

It was a bit undignified, but between d’Artagnan’s hand up and Porthos’ shove on the backside, they soon got him settled. But by the time they had made the short ride back to the Garrison, he was feeling every single bruise and his muscles felt as heavy as lead.

He sighed. The ground looked very far down and really rather hard.

“Tonight the story will be all round Paris. Even the Red Guard will be toasting your health for besting Ortiz,” d’Artagnan twisted round in the saddle to look at him, his eyes dark with concern. He could hardly have missed the way Athos shook with exhaustion against his back. “But for now, wait for Porthos?”

“Agreed.” Athos gave a wry smile.

But even with Porthos’ waiting arms, Athos had to gather himself before he could slither off the horse, only managing to keep his feet under him thanks to his brother’s steadying hand. Squaring his shoulders, he straightened up, only to cast a sour look at the staircase which led to his office.

“Alright then, let’s just take this nice and slow.” Porthos said.

A strong arm slid neatly around his waist, easily taking most of his weight. Athos sank thankfully into his hold, relieved beyond words he did not have to manage alone, letting his head drop onto Porthos’ shoulder in silent gratitude and receiving a fond squeeze in return. Even so, he was sweating and breathing heavily by the time they got to the top of the stairs. Judging from the concerned look Porthos gave him, he looked as bad as he felt. Opening the door to his office, Porthos wasted no time in helping him over to the bed.

“I have work to do.” Athos protested.

Across the room his desk was covered in neat piles of requisitions, assignments, correspondence and matters of state, all awaiting his attention.

“It’ll keep.” Porthos knelt down and started taking off his boots. “You’ve had a busy morning.”

“Francois can do that,” Athos frowned slightly. “That is why you badgered me to engage him, is it not?”

“Yeah well, maybe I need to do this,” Porthos said seriously as he sat back on his heels, to look at Athos, struggling to find the words to explain just how much he needed this physical closeness right now, having watched his brother face down such a monster, feeling his heart in his mouth at every exchange of blows. “Let me?”

Thankfully between these men few words had ever been needed. With a soft look of understanding Athos included his head.

“Very well.”

Porthos carefully helped Athos out of his doublet, not missing the way his face creased in pain at the movement.

“Your side’s hurting you, eh?”

“It’s just bruising,” Athos gasped, slightly breathlessly. “I think.”

Taking him at his word for now Porthos made a mental note to have Aramis take a look and focused on unbuttoning Athos breeches.

“Lift up.”

Athos obligingly braced himself on his right hand and raised his rump off the bed long enough for Porthos to slide his breeches over his hips. As he did so he looked around the room, realizing for the first time that they were alone.

“Where did the others go?”

“D’Artagnan’s gone to round us up some lunch. Aramis is fetching his doctoring bag. So, try and stay awake a little longer?”

“Hmm?”

“Your eyes have fallen shut.” Porthos told him with a smile in his voice.

“Oh.”

With a greater effort than he wanted to admit, Athos opened them to see Porthos grinning fondly at him.

“Alright, we going to this next part without you needing to raise your arm,” He instructed, as he took hold of Athos’ shirt on each shoulder. “Let me do the work.”

The next thing Athos knew he was waking to the soft glow of candle light in a dark room. Taking a breath, he realised his ribs felt somewhat tight. Slipping his hand under the covers, his fingers brushed over linen strips, confirming his suspicions that they had been wrapped. His nose also caught the familiar scent of the astringent Aramis frequently insisted on dabbing on their bruises.

Across the room his brothers were all gathered around his desk. Porthos, seated on the desk itself, was playing some card game or other. D’Artagnan, dressed only in shirt sleeves and breeches, was sat on the floor cleaning his sword and Aramis was sitting in Athos’ chair, tipped back onto its two hind legs, with his feet propped on the edge of his desk, engrossed in his reading.

“Get your feet off my desk,” Athos drawled. Then paused. “And someone fetch me a chamber pot.”

The party swiftly moved to his bedside. So hungry that he burnt his tongue on his first few mouthfuls, Athos nonetheless stopped dead halfway down his bowl of stew to stare at Porthos, sitting at the end of the bed, down by his feet.

“You’re not serious?”

“True as I’m sitting here,” Porthos assured him. “You fell asleep whilst I was undressing you. Still sitting up and everything. Spark out, you were.”

“You didn’t even stir when Aramis was wrapping your ribs.” D’Artagnan added, from where he was sprawled by Athos’ side, one hip perched on the narrow mattress and a foot resting on the floor for balance.

“Ribs that were cracked, if you please, not merely bruised,” Aramis huffed his disapproval, from the chair he had dragged over and placed on the other side of the bed. “And then you slept for almost ten hours.”

Athos considered that.

“I do feel a lot better.”

“Aren’t you worried about all that work you had to do?” Porthos asked, surprised.

“Need I be?” Athos felt a soft smile take over his face at the thoughtfulness of his brothers. “Aramis has taken care of all the urgent paperwork. D’Artagnan has over seen the afternoon sword drills and you have interviewed today’s contingent of would be Musketeer recruits wanting to experience the glory of war and separated the wheat from the chaff as usual.”

“How could you possibly _know_ that?” d’Artagnan demanded.

Athos smirked, he supposed he _could_ tell him that he had already noticed that the piles of documents on his desk had been sorted and re-ordered. And that the level of his ink well, which he had only topped up that very morning, was now all but empty. Aramis was the most likely candidate for that task. D’Artagnan would not have left his mentor’s’s side unless one of the others had set him a task and yet he had clearly been sparring. Also, every day since the prospect of war had become a certainly, the Garrison had seen a long line of eager young would be Musketeers and Porthos had straw in his hair.

But where would be the fun in that?

So, instead he merely ate some more stew. It really was very good.

“We cleaned your swords, too,” Aramis told him. None of them had wanted Ortiz’ blood to taint the point of Athos’ blade any longer than absolutely necessary. He went over and retrieved one of the weapons from the shadows. “I’m afraid there was some damage to your father’s sword where it was thrust into the floor.”

Athos could immediately see what Aramis meant. The very tip of the blade was bent. It seemed like a small imperfection but it would make it quite impossible to run your opponent through.

“We could try and get it repaired,” d’Artagnan offered, his tone soft with the understanding of a man who bore his father’s sword with pride. “It might hammer out?”

“It is of no great consequence,” Athos assured him. “It is enough that it has been returned to me. I can honour the memory of my father equally well with it hanging on the wall of my office, as with it sitting in my scabbard. Especially since I already have such a fine replacement.”

He looked askance at d’Artagnan.

“Although, I have been wondering where you found the coin to pay for such an impressive piece?”

It was true that over the last two years d’Artagnan had been sending any coin he could spare or any reward money he earned back to Gascony so those labourers who relied on his family farm for their livelihoods could rebuild and replant. With this year’s crops he had finally begun to see a profit again.

But that sword had been a truly costly gift.

“You never asked before.” D’Artagnan hedged, not meeting Athos’ eyes.

“I did not wish to seem ungrateful. But I will not see you fall into debt on my account. Not when you will soon have a wife and most likely children to support.”

“I didn’t incur any debt, I used the funds I had been putting aside for my wedding,” d’Artagnan admitted. Before Athos could protest he hastened to explain. “Constance is so very fond of you. I knew she would understand. And it’s not like we actually have need of anything. Father Luke has already agreed to host the ceremony in the Regimental Chapel, the Queen has kindly offered the services of her dressmaker to provide Constance with a wedding dress. We’ll wear our uniforms. Serge is going to prepare the wedding breakfast. He’s even asked Treville’s advice for adding some Gascon specialties. The regiment is clubbing together to cover the cost of the food and the Minister has offered to provide the drink as his wedding gift. What else do we need?”

The others exchanged a telling look. Then Athos gestured to the purse of reward money sitting on his desk.

“One of you bring me that would you?”

Porthos went to collect it, thoughtfully opening the drawstring for him, before exchanging it for the now empty stew bowl

“You want any more of that?”

“No, thank you, I’m full.”

“Alright, but you’re coming down to eat with us in the morning,” Porthos insisted “Francois said you didn’t have time for more than a bite of bread and cheese this morning and you slept right through the mid-day meal. M. Martain said it’s important for you to eat regularly to keep up your strength.”

“If it is within my power, I’ll be there.” Preparations for war didn’t run to a precise schedule but Athos knew the fact he couldn’t recall how many meals he had actually had time to eat in the last week was less than ideal. “You have my word.”

Turning his attention to the purse in his hand Athos carefully tipped the coins onto the bed and dividing them into four equal piles, neatly balanced on the edge of the mattress.       

“Buy those new boots you need,” He passed one pile of coins to Porthos. “I can make it an order, if I must. But I’ll not have you going to war in patched boots.”

“This will buy some right fancy boots and more besides.” Porthos beamed. Now he would also have enough to buy the new armour he needed, since the set he had had commissioned the last time they went on campaign no longer fit. He was pretty sure Athos knew he had been worrying about how to pay for that.

“This is to replenish your medical supplies,” He nudged the second pile towards Aramis. “Don’t even think about refusing. You always take it so much to heart if you don’t have whatever remedy we need.”

“Athos, this amount could fill an entire apothecary shop,” Aramis felt utterly blessed. Now he would be able to stockpile enough supplies to ensure that he could save countess lives in the coming conflict.

“And, as for you,” Athos looked meaningfully at d’Artagnan. “At a wedding it _is_ customary to exchange rings.”

“Rings,” D’Artagnan looked stricken at the oversight. “I never even thought.”

There was no way he could afford to buy a gold band for Constance at such short notice on his Musketeer’s stipend. Never mind purchase a matching pair. And no time to send to Gascony to see if there was even an extra sous to be had.

“Evidently.”

Despite his dry tone Athos then very carefully placed the two remaining piles next to each other and pushed them both towards the Gascon.

“For that money you can get something real nice,” Porthos beamed. “I know a man who’ll melt some of those down for you and re-cast ‘em. Maybe add a bit of pattern to the edges.”

“And enough coin left over for some engraving,” Aramis added. “The date is always nice. Or your initials. Perhaps a line of poetry?”

“That’s very romantic.” Athos complimented him.

“Constance is a fine woman,” Aramis allowed, with a dip of his chin. “She deserves the best.”

“Athos, I can’t take your money,” D’Artagnan protested. “Especially, not for something like this. It’s my responsibility.”  

“D’Artagnan, if there is anything that this,” Athos nodded at the stump of his arm. “Has taught me, it’s that there is no shame in accepting help from those that love you. It makes all parties concerned feel better. You have done more for me than you know. Please allow me the honour of doing this for you.”

“To graciously accept something which has been freely given, confers joy and blessings on both giver and recipient.” Aramis proclaimed.

“I don’t know that bible verse,” Porthos observed curiously. “Where’s that one from?”

“You think I can’t wax lyric without divine intervention?” Aramis huffed. “I have told you before, I have the soul of a poet.”

“That’s funny, I thought you said you had the soul of a soldier.”

“And a poet.”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan struggled to find the right words to express the depth of his gratitude. “Thank you. That doesn’t even seem to begin to cover it. But I don’t know what else to say.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Porthos grinned, dipping his head slightly so he could see Athos’ face. “He can’t hear you anyway. He’s dropped off again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis dragging d'Artagnan off Ortiz was 100% inspired by Aramis dragging d'Artagnan away from Marcheaux in S3 Ep2. Some things never change our Gascon is still a hot head when his principles are ruffled.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It seems Ortiz is dead.”
> 
> “He is?”

The next morning, Athos was barely risen, towel in hand and the hair around the edge of his face still damp from washing, when there came a knock at the door.

The Garrison Blacksmith had been proud as punch to be asked to put his hand to inventing something that would enable the Captain to wash himself with only one arm. The result being an ingenious contraption, composed of jugs, levers and troughs, which gave Athos a system of running water, allowing him to see to his personal ablutions with ease.

At the unexpected interruption he thanked providence that Francois had already helped him into sheet and breeches, feet neatly encased in wool stockings and boots.

“Shall I tell them to come back?”

Francois hovered, holding Athos’ doublet in his hands, his consternation plain that his Captain was still in just his shirt sleeves, with his sword belt hanging on the back of a chair. Athos was already fondly cognizant of the fact that Francois took it as a matter of personal pride that his patron was always immaculately turned out.

“No,” Athos knew no-one would disturb him at this hour without good reason. He gestured at the jacket. “Just help me on with that.”

“Captain,” Betram nodded respectfully, as he was admitted. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early. Minister Treville’s orders.”

The grave expression on his face was enough to alert Athos to the fact that something was a foot.

“Francois,” Athos crossed to his desk and retrieved a list. “Could you kindly take today’s duty roster down to either Porthos or Aramis and ask them to hand out the assignments?”

“Yes, Athos.” Francois obediently took the document.

“Was there something else?” Athos raised a brow, when the young man didn’t immediately leave.

“Porthos asked me to remind you ‘before you got your head stuck in some stuffy business or other’ that you promised to have breakfast with them this morning.”

“If you are ever to attain a position at the Palace we will need to work on your candour.”

“Sorry Athos,” Francois grinned un-repentantly, knowing the man was more amused than annoyed. “I’ll tell Porthos you’ll be down shortly.”

As the door closed behind him, Athos looked at Bertram with an indulgent shake of his head. Secure enough in his relationship with the veteran Musketeer to share his own moment of frankness.

“And here I thought I was the Captain.”

“They love you, Athos,” Bertram reminded him. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been through a difficult time and they’ve had a sharp reminder of how painful it would be to lose you.  Things will settle back to normal soon enough,” He gave the younger man a stern look. “Just so long as you don’t go doing anything foolhardy and go giving them unnecessary reason to worry, that is.”

“Don’t you start,” Athos huffed, without heat. “I’m surrounded by mother hens.”

In truth he had been touched to realise not just the level of respect, but _affection_ the men held for him.

“You said you had orders from Treville?”

“Yes,” Reaching into his jacket Bertram produced a single sheet of parchment, bearing Treville’s seal. “The Minister asked that I hand this to you myself.”

“Do you know what it is?” Athos asked, with a frown.

"Best you read it in Treville’s own words,” Bertram told him. “Although, truth be told the whole thing is a storm in a tea cup. The King was positively gleeful. Even the Spanish Ambassador didn’t seem to care very much and I’ll warrant the Spanish King has more important things to worry about right now than some random accident.”

Athos use his thumbnail to break Treville’s seal and then read the few, short, lines in his familiar loping hand. He looked up,

“And the Spanish Ambassador isn’t looking to stir up trouble over this?”

"He made a few protesting noises, for form’s sake, I reckon,” Bertram shrugged. “But his heart really wasn’t in it. And to placate the Spanish King his Majesty gave way on one of his lessor demands, which was a sight more than the Ambassador expected to achieve, so he’s going home happy.”

Having dismissed Bertram, Athos very deliberately folded up the parchment and put it carefully in his pocket, before making his way down the stairs to the training yard.

D’Artagnan was approaching from the direction of the kitchen, a bowl of eggs in one hand and a platter of thickly sliced ham in the other. At the table Porthos was already in the process of putting out cups and plates. Someone had fetched a plate of cheese and a basket of fresh bread. Then Aramis, came up whistling from the cellar, two bottles of red wine dangling from his fingers.

“Captain,” He smiled when he saw Athos and held up the wine. “Your timing is perfect.”

“I have news.” Athos looked around at his friends’ faces.

“Is something wrong?” d’Artagnan frowned.

“Not wrong exactly.” Athos allowed.

“Then sit down and tell us while we eat,” Porthos told him. “Serge cured the ham himself, using some Gascon recipe Treville gave him. It’s good.”

Athos settled himself down next to d’Artagnan, accepted a cup of wine from Aramis and gave Porthos a wry look when the man nudged an overfilled plate towards him.

“You don’t eat enough.” Porthos was unrepentant.

Athos smiled fondly. He had been afraid that his Captaincy would change his relationship with these men. Yet, if anything, the trials of his amputation had made their bond even stronger. Their care for him meant they would not hesitate to set him straight when they felt it warranted. But their love and pride in him shone brighter than ever and in return Athos felt more secure in expressing his feelings. He knew it made him a better man and he hoped a better leader.

“So, d'Artagnan, Francois tells me you bested du Pont yesterday,” He observed around a mouthful of cheese. “That’s well done.”

He couldn’t help but smile when d’Artagnan blushed at the unexpected praise. Gilbert du Pont was one of the most experienced swordsmen in the regiment and d’Artagnan was fast becoming his equal. Still, it seemed he would never outgrow his desire for Athos’ approval.

“Our little Gascon’s all grown up.”

Aramis reached over and playfully ruffled his hair and then yelped as d’Artagnan kicked him _hard_ under the table.

Athos didn’t even try to hide his grin at their antics. Here, surrounded by these men, he knew he could face the future, whatever it might bring, no matter how challenging it might be, because he would always have his brothers by his side.

“So, you said you had news?” Aramis asked finally, once they had all eaten and drank their fill.

“It seems Ortiz is dead.”

“He is?”

The look of genuine surprise on d’Artagnan’s face instantly absolved the young man of any responsibility. The Gascon was a very poor liar. Especially to his friends.

“I hope you ain’t expecting me to mourn?” Porthos was blunt. “Good riddance to him. World’ll be a better place without scum like that.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how it happened?” Athos asked mildly.

“Does it matter?” Aramis gave a light shrug. “My personal preference would be for a long and agonising death. But however it occurred he is in God’s hands now and divine justice lasts for all eternity.”

“How _did_ it happen?” d’Artagnan, at least, was curious.

“It seems there was an unfortunate accident. According to Treville Ortiz apparently got up in the night to use the chamber pot and went to empty it out of the window, but in the dark he tripped over his own feet and cracked his head open on the stone floor. Apparently, the wound was so severe death was inevitable.”

“And no-one saw or heard anything?” Aramis enquired.

“The Spanish were being lodged in an area of the Palace where there is little traffic, in order to minimise any conflict. Ortiz’s man swears he was on guard all night and no one came near his chamber.”

“That’s .. convenient.” D’Artagnan frowned.

“What do you mean?” Aramis asked.

"Nothing." d'Artagnan looked a little _too_ innocent. 

“It is somewhat suspicious that he died within the confines of the Palace but no poor underling in the King’s household could be suspected any wrong doing," Athos observed. "It’s almost like it was planned that way."

“So, who do we know who has connections at the Palace and loves Athos?” Porthos pondered aloud.

“Treville wouldn’t,” Athos shook his head. “He’s a Minister of the Crown, he’s got a position to uphold. If his complicity were proved the consequences for the country would be dire.”

“Nothing can be proved though, can it?” Aramis reminded him. “Given that Ortiz was the only witness to whatever happened and he’s taken that secret to the grave.”

“Treville would never put France at risk.” Athos shook his head.

“I think you underestimate just what Treville might do for your sake,” Aramis counselled, patting the hand resting on the table fondly. “You do rather tend to inspire love and devotion in others.”

“Treville had no hand in it,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “He came over to speak with me about our defenses on the Gascony/Spanish boarder. We were in the armoury going over the maps and plans until almost dawn.”

Athos gave him a mild look, the boarder between Gascony and Spain wasn’t _that_ long.

"Is that so?"

“Well, there might have been a bottle of Armagnac involved and a few stories of home,” d’Artagnan admitted, his features softening at the memory of how Treville had encouraged him to talk about his family, sharing his own memories of the province in return, before they had moved on to what he could expect from the conflict to come. “It was nice.”

Athos hid his smile behind his cup. War was part of a soldier’s role and d’Artagnan was excited to finally have the chance to go on campaign alongside his brothers. But he was also astute enough to have a degree of trepidation about what was to come. Treville was well versed in settling young men before battle.                                                            

"Well, it seems we have a mystery on our hands.” Athos observed.

“Well, whoever it was, I’d be glad to a glass to them,” D’Artagnan declared. “Because I know I speak for every man in the Regiment when I say I’m fucking glad the heartless bastard is dead.”

All three men turned to look at the young man in surprise. D’Artagnan had been slow to adopt the coarser habits of his fellow soldiers, too immured in the provincial values of his youth, he rarely swore. To hear him do so now with such venom had Porthos patting his knee comfortingly and Aramis placing a consoling hand on his back. For his part, Athos knew that despite what d’Artagnan had suffered at Ortiz’s hands he was mostly angry for his sake and he could not help but be warmed by it.

“Tonight we’ll all repair to the Tavern d’Or for dinner and I’ll order the best Merlot in the cellar,” Athos assured him. “But for now we all have work to do.”

“Quite so,” Aramis rose to his feet. “Porthos and I have recruits to drill, d’Artagnan has Palace duty and you, our noble leader, have paperwork to attend to.”

 “Think of me, standing for hours in some draughty room, with nothing to do,” D’Artagnan made a face, as he got up.

 Athos fixed him with a steady look.

“Given that the alternative is an attack on the Royal family do you truly wish for excitement?”

“Well, when you put it like that.” D’Artagnan acknowledged.

Feeling his point well-made Athos saluted him with his cup.

“Go, give my regards to the future Madame d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan stopped dead, a look of pure joy passing across his features at the reference to his impending nuptials.

“Madame d’Artagnan,” He grinned. “That’s right, she’s going to be my wife. You know, I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that.”

“Give it a couple of years and a few children.” Porthos clapped him on the back. “You’ll get there.”

Athos waited until d’Artagnan was well out of earshot, before turning to the others.

“Gentlemen, a moment of your time, if I may?” At their enquiring looks, he tipped his head on one-side, making his next word a command. “Upstairs.”

It was a novel situation for all three of them for Athos to be the one standing behind the desk, with his two brothers standing stiffly to attention on the other side.

“Tell me you didn’t.” He sighed.

“We kept d’Artagnan out of it,” Porthos assured him at once, not pretending to mis-understand his Captain’s meaning. “He’s got a bright future ahead of him and he needs to be spending his years making Constance happy and tending to the brood of little d’Artagnan’s the two of them are going to produce. If anything ever comes out we’ve taken steps to see no blame will fall on him.”

"By steps, you mean Treville, I assume?” Athos quirked a brow.

“There are plenty of witnesses who can bear witness they were both at here at the Garrison when Ortiz died.” Aramis affirmed.

“Did the Minister know what you were about?”

“We didn’t tell him,” Porthos shifted a little uneasily. “But he probably guessed.”

“ _Someone_ arranged for the man guarding Ortiz to be served a full jug of a rather decent Merlot instead of the half jug of watered wine that was requested,” Aramis shrugged. “He was fast asleep and snoring like a pig when we stepped over him.”

“Falling asleep at his post. No wonder he was so quick to assure the Spanish Ambassador it was a genuine accident,” Athos observed. He frowned. “Although, Treville’s approach is usually more direct.” 

“Treville, isn’t the only one with connections at the Palace,” d’Artagnan spoke up from the doorway. Coming into the room he raised a brow at his two brothers on this side of the desk in an almost perfect imitation of Athos. “You didn’t really think you could keep this from me, did you?”

“Please tell me you didn’t get Constance involved in this.” Athos disapproved.

“Believe me, it was entirely her idea,” d’Artagnan protested. “She thinks of you as family and was as keen as anyone to see justice done as I was. Any court in the land would have condemned Ortiz for what he did.”

“You were planning on challenging Ortiz?” Aramis frowned. "You gave your word."

“I know," d'Artagnan assured him. "I wasn't going to challenge him. Ortiz was a man entirely without honour, he didn’t deserve an honourable death. Once the guard was asleep, I was just going to show up and kill him, but then Treville arrived and I couldn’t leave. I thought I’d missed my chance.”

“Ortiz didn’t get up to use the chamber pot, did he?” Athos looked at the others.

“No, but he pissed himself all over with fear when he saw realized it was the two of us standing in his bed chamber.” Porthos smirked.

“Damn you, this is _not_ a laughing matter,” Athos raised his voice, bringing his fist down sharply on the table for emphasis. “All three of you are fools. If you had been seen the King would have had no option but to have you put to death. Killing a Spanish Officer within the confines of the Palace itself? What on earth were you _thinking_ , entertaining such a ridiculous risk?”

“He _hurt_ you,” Porthos retorted hotly in his turn. “Body and soul. Maybe, we couldn’t protect you from that. But there was no way in hell we were ever going to just let it stand.”

“Not to mention, with war approaching, such a monster could not be allowed to wreck his particularly sadistic brand of havoc on any more of the finest blood of France,” Aramis added. “It was my pleasure to speed him on his way to divine judgement.”

“And If they hadn’t done it, I would have.” d’Artagnan refused to be absolved of blame, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brothers.

Athos took a deep breath. He knew they understood his anger was solely out of worry for them. Aramis had only _just_ escaped the noose. And, despite his noble lineage, Porthos had already experienced the prejudice of a justice system that could not see past the colour of his skin. And d’Artagnan had already incurred Louis wrath for refusing to kill on his orders. There would have been little hope for mercy for any of them.

Still.

“We _were_ careful,” Aramis assured him. “We didn’t use the main corridors. There are plenty of back stairs and concealed passages to navigate without been seen.”

“And we made sure Ortiz really did hit his head,” Porthos added. “Anyone checking is going to assume any other bruises came from his bout with you. One good crack over the head with the square base of some vase thing and he fell like a tree.”

“The pair of you are totally incorrigible,” Athos declared, with an exasperated sigh. “But it does appear you at least thought this through.”

“Does that mean we are forgiven?” Aramis risked a small smile.

Rising to his feet Athos came around the desk and pulled the sharpshooter into a fierce one-armed hug. Burying his face in his shoulder and breathing in the scent of leather, gun power and cologne that was so uniquely Aramis as he patted him on the back.

Turning he then fell wordlessly into Porthos’ open arms. Taking a moment to sink into that sense of strength and security as strong arms wrapped around him. Holding on a little tighter and longer than perhaps the Captain of the Regiment should do. But Athos, taking solace in the arms of his brother, could not bring himself to care.

Finally, he turned to d’Artagnan. Letting his pride in the fine young man he had become, shine through, as he held him close, resting his chin on his shoulder, before dropping a soft kiss in his hair.

“Thank you,” Straightening up, he was not ashamed that his eyes were damp and his voice a little hoarse. “Thank you, my dearest brothers, for doing what the Captain of the regiment could not.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Aramis teased fondly. “It’s not as if I have any medical knowledge of how to kill a man with a single blow and make it look like an accident.”

"And if you wanted to know anything about skulking around in the shadows,” Porthos shrugged nonchalantly. “I’d be the last person you’d think to ask.”

“Part of me wishes I could have been the one to plunge my blade into Ortiz’s chest and watch as the life drained out of him,” Athos admitted. He held up a hand to forestall the protests he knew were coming. “But as things stand I know I am blessed indeed to have brothers who love me as entirely as I care for them.”

“So, you’ve finally grasped that concept?” Aramis smiled at him.

“About bloody time,” Porthos grumbled fondly. “It’s only taken you seven years to work it out.”

“Some scars take longer to heal than others,” Athos allowed. “Thomas’ selfishness cut me deeply and made me feel unworthy to call myself anyone’s brother. But your steadfast loyalty has convinced me otherwise.”

“Aright, now you’re gonna make me cry.” Indeed, Porthos looked very emotional.

“I could list some of his faults, if that will help?” Aramis said brightly.

“Out, all of you,” Athos ordered fondly. “There is a war coming and we all have work to do.”

As the others left, d’Artagnan hung back.

“When I lost my father, I thought I had nothing left in this life. You stood by my side and never let me falter. You gave me a future and a family. My sword will always be at your disposal. Nothing in this world could make me prouder than using the skills you have taught me to be your strength and shield.”

“You know,” Athos sat back in his chair. “It is customary for a Captain to lead his men in battle. If I were to fight on horseback my lack of an arm would be no real obstacle.”

“We could work on that.” D’Artagnan grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist a small call back to one of my favourite moments in S3 E1.
> 
> Epilogue coming as soon as work allows.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite everything, he was still a Musketeer. Body and soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end. This story has been part of my life for well over a year now so it will strange for it to be over. My most sincere thanks to everyone who has left kudos and taken the time to leave your thoughts in a comment, I particularly enjoyed hearing about your favourite parts of the story. I've tried to tie up all the loose ends and its not easy to write a happy ending with war coming on - but I've done my best.

Despite the comfort of his rooms at the Palace Treville didn’t think there would ever come a time when riding through the gates of the Garrison wouldn’t feel like coming home. The sounds of the blades clashing and muskets firing, the shouts of the men as they called to each other, friendly jests and jibes as they went about their business, was part of his very bones. A few familiar faces stopped what they were doing to acknowledge him as he dismounted and Jacques ran up to take his horse with an ear to ear grin.

“Minister, it’s good to see you, sir. The Captain’s up in his office.”

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s well, sir. Thank you.” Jacques beamed as Treville flipped him a bright coin.

As he turned towards the stairs Treville felt a proud smile spread across his face as he saw d’Artagnan walking up and down a line of new recruits, moving arms and positioning legs, as he over saw their sword drills.

“Steady,” His hand shot out and caught one of them by the collar, as they almost fell over their own feet executing a set piece. “Do it slowly, the first time. You can speed up once you get the hang of it.”

“Yes, sir,” The youth, who couldn’t be more than two or three years d’Artagnan’s junior, nodded earnestly.

Stepping back a little so he could continue to watch the whole line d’Artagnan fell in beside Treville and nodded a greeting.

“Minister,” He murmured. “We missed you at the wedding.”

“I was sorry not to be there. The King insisted that I was present for his negotiations with the English. I hear Constance was radiant.”

“She was,” d’Artagnan smiled softly as he recalled the sight of his bride coming down the aisle on Athos’ arm. “And thank you, for that fine bottle of Almanac. It was nice to have a reminder of Gascony. We drank a toast to your health.”

“I’m glad I was at least here in spirit,” Treville punned. “How are the new recruits coming along?” 

“Promising,” d’Artagnan made a face. “But raw.”

“Keep at it,” Treville slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder. Not able to resist the temptation to add with a tight grin. “Athos said much the same about you in the beginning.”

Leaving d’Artagnan gaping in his wake he made his way across the training yard, he noticed Porthos, having a new set of armor fitted, flexing and extending his fingers in the metal gauntlets to see if they fit correctly.

“That looks like you mean business.” He greeted him.

“When don’t I?,” Porthos grinned. “And look at this.”

He lifted up a new pauldron picked out in three colours of leather, embossed with the head of a bull, a bear and a lion. But what really caught Treville’s eye was the way the fleur de lys was picked out in gold.

“Good isn’t it?” Porthos noted the direction of his gaze. “I got the idea from the one you had made for Athos. With so many new faces joining the Regiment the gilding’ll make it much easier for us to keep an eye on each other in battle.”

Tactically it was a good idea. Men who had never been on campaign before could easily become confused in the smoke and noise of an engagement. Albeit, it seemed rather extravert when they still needed basic uniforms, arms and other supplies.

“How much is that costing?”

“That’s the best part. It’s just a bit of gold plate over metal,” Porthos grinned. “All it took was to have a few of them gold coins Athos gave me melted down and we had enough for the entire Regiment.”

Shaking his head fondly at the man’s resourcefulness and generosity of spirit, Treville made his way up the stairs towards his old office. How many men, raised hand to mouth, as Porthos had been, would see good fortune as something to be shared rather than hoarded?

On the walkway he met Aramis just coming out.

“Minister.”

“Aramis,” He raised a brow at the large cross picked out in gold and blue adorning his uniform. “Not regretting your decision to leave the Monastery, I hope?”      

“Nothing in comparism to the regret I would have felt if Athos had died before he could be safely returned to Paris,” Aramis looked him straight in the eye. “If my medical knowledge played even the smallest part in keeping my brother alive then I was exactly where I needed to be.”

“So, then this is because ..?” Treville nodded at the very obvious embellishment.

“Because the miracle of Athos’ survival made me realise that there is more than one way in this life to serve God,” Aramis observed. “I made a vow, Minister. I intend to keep my promise to devote my life to following the path God choses for me, wherever that may lead me, and try to live as well as I can in the process.”

“That might not be easy with war coming.” Treville warned.

“On the contrary,” Aramis cast a small, fond, smile over his shoulder towards the closed office door and Treville knew he was thinking of the rawcourage Athos had recently displayed. “It is when things are at their very darkest that it is easiest to see the light.”

He paused, before making a rueful face.

“You just need to be sure that you are looking in the right direction. I think I lost sight of that for a while.”

Treville was still smiling at that as he rapped lightly on Athos’ door and entered.

“You’ve made some changes.” He announced himself.

His old desk and chair, with adjacent its cabinet were still there. But a second desk and chair had been placed at a right angle. Its top covered in neat piles of paper. Treville picked one up at random and saw it was an order for horse feed.

Around the edges of the room were ranged three mis-matched chairs. One he recognized from the kitchen, another fetched from the armory. A third he had never seen before. To one side of the room, was a small side table, bearing a chess set, a game in progress.

“Do you approve?” Athos sat back in his chair.

“It’s your office,” Treville studied the chess board. “M. Martain is proving an apt student I hope?”

“We enjoy our games,” Athos gave one of those little smiles of his, that said more than words just how his friendship with the surgeon had enriched his life. “Would you believe he has also persuaded d’Artagnan to help him brush up on his sword work? He wishes to be able to defend himself and his patients during the war if his operating tent is ever overrun.”

“Really?” Treville gave a thin smile, thinking of some of the pompous physicians clad in silk and brocade, who fluttered around the King like plump little moths. “Perhaps, we should make that mandatory for all medical personal?”

“As long as you don’t expect my Musketeers to train them.” Athos said dryly.

Treville made a show of turning to the cabinet in order to hide his proud smile. It made his heart glad to hear Athos speaking of _his_ men in such proprietary terms and to see that he had taken this office as his own. It was everything he had hoped for when he had recommended him for the Captaincy. 

Picking up two glasses and, finding a bottle of rather good brandy he had somehow inadvertently left behind, he carried them over to the desk and then brought over one the chairs. Athos watched him guardedly as he poured out two generous measures and then nudged one across the desk. When Treville looked up, his Captain’s eyes were all too knowing.

“I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“I wanted to do you the courtesy of telling you in person. The Regiment has orders to move to the Spanish border at first light tomorrow,” Trevillle confirmed solemnly. “We are now officially at war.”

Athos wasn’t sure quite how long he sat there after Treville had left, staring at his still untouched glass, as the lengthening afternoon shadows gradually gave way to dusk. But it was no longer than it took his brothers to take care of their afternoon assignments and come knocking at his door.

“It’s war then.” D’Artagnan, ever astute, observed quietly. His youthful exuberance tempered by his knowledge of what this would mean for all of them.  

“Not like we didn’t know it was coming.” Porthos was pragmatic.

“It was good of the Minister to bring us word in person.” Aramis acknowledged.

“Treville is a loyal servant of the crown, but he is first and foremost a Musketeer.” Athos reflected.

“Yeah,” Porthos exchanged a fond look with the others. “We know how that goes.”

“Gentlemen?” Athos looked curious.

“Well, look at us,” d’Artagnan clarified. “Aramis’ family wanted him to become a priest, my father intended for me to be a farmer, the odds were stacked against Porthos gaining a place in the King’s own regiment and you were destined to rule as a Comte. But we have, all of us, found our true calling as Musketeers.”

“I can do God’s work seeing that evil does not go unchallenged far better as a Musketeer than I could in a Monastery.” Aramis agreed.

“The Regiment’s given me the family I never had.” Porthos smiled at his brothers. “And a purpose in life I can be proud of.”

“When my father died, I feared I was all alone in the world,” d’Artagnan admitted. “Instead, I found myself with three older brothers and the chance to follow my dreams.”

Athos looked around at the faces of these men, all regarding him with such love and affection that he found he could not be anything but honest.

“When I arrived in Paris, I felt like I had lost everything I had ever valued. I was looking for nothing more than a quick route to a passingly honorable death.”

“Dear God, Athos,” d’Artagnan straightened up. His expression a mixture of sympathy for his best friend and horror at how close they had come to never meeting. “That would have been such a waste of a noble life.”

“Treville literally pulled me from the gutter and gave me a reason to live. You two gentlemen were my salvation,” he looked at Porthos and Aramis. “You taught me to trust again and never once gave me reason to believe that trust was misplaced. Even when you saw the very worst of me you stood by me.”

“Your worst ain’t half so bad as you think,” Porthos spoke up. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. You ain’t responsible for what others do, for all you always try to take everything on yourself.”

“You are always so quick to forgive others their transgressions I wish you could show yourself the same mercy.” Aramis gave him a knowing look. The good Lord knew his infinitely tolerant older brother had shown him endless patience. “I know I am an infinitely better man for having known you.”

“I’d second that,” D’Artagnan stood tall. “I don’t have the words to thank you for all you have done for me. But I know I shall spend the rest of my days trying to make you proud.”

“You already have,” Athos looked around. “All of you. I could not imagine leading the Regiment to war without each of you by my side.”  

No words were needed. Porthos held out his hand, palm down. As Aramis, then d’Artagnan, overlaid it with their own. Before looking at Athos expectantly.

Swallowing hard, Athos was not ashamed of the tears that welled in his eyes, as he reached out and put his one, remaining, hand on top of the pile.

Despite everything, he was still a Musketeer. Body and soul.


End file.
